


What Is Meant To Be (Always Finds A Way)

by MisterTiberius



Series: Immutable Destiny [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Behavior, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Friends to Lovers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Injured Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pack Dynamics, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:40:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 82,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisterTiberius/pseuds/MisterTiberius
Summary: A series of oneshots depicting a Feral Witcher and his Bard (This is self-indulgent Jaskier whump in which Geralt is even less sociable and much more growly).
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Immutable Destiny [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1725436
Comments: 241
Kudos: 1112
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Destiny Is Not A Matter Of Chance (It's A Matter Of Choice)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's really you, the Butcher of Blaviken." Jaskier regretted voicing the crude nickname the moment it was out in the open, especially when the thoughtless words earned him a truly icy glare. The Witcher's luminescent eyes were arctic cold, his mouth set into a hateful sneer.

Never in a million years did Jaskier believe he would find himself in such a situation.

He'd led a simple, mostly-safe life of travelling from town to town, city to city, with only the boots on his feet and the lute on his back. But even Jaskier made poor decisions that absolutely ignored his already almost non-existent self-preservation instincts, such as wandering about outside after dark. Granted, a particularly well-off woman had so kindly invited him over to her house for a more...private performance, and he recognized the hungry look she'd given him when she offered.

Which brought him back to his current predicament, cowering on the ground as two beasts clashed above him. He recognized the first monster as a Griffin, it was hard not to seeing as he'd gotten an up-close look at the thing when it'd swooped out of the sky to try and snatch him up. The clasping talons never reached him because a second creature barreled out of the forest, massive fur-covered hands latching onto the Griffin's outstretched claws. The beast spun in a move that hinted at human intelligence to hurl the furiously flapping Griffin away from Jaskier's frozen form.

It gracelessly crashed into a tree, snapping the trunk like it was a mere twig. The Griffin shook itself, beak stretching open to let loose a shriek so loud that Jaskier swore his eardrums  _ vibrated _ with the grating sound. The Griffin lurched forward, a swipe of its wings propelling it faster. Jaskier's jaw dropped open in puzzled awe when the beast in front of him bent it's dog-like legs to brace for impact, and it was a  _ ballad-worthy _ collision. The two creatures meeting in an animalistic clash of teeth and claws, screeches and growls reverberating through the empty road.

Jaskier yelped, landing flat on his ass when the Griffin slammed down distressingly close to his person. It's pupils shrunk when it noticed him, it's neck craning to snap a terrifyingly sharp beak dangerously close to his sprawled legs. Jaskier scrambled back, vision tunneling in on the struggling Griffin as blood roared in his ears. Something large pressed solidly against his chest, Jaskier's wide eyes snapping down to gawk at the enormous paw of a hand that was pushing him back.

The beast shifted it's mammoth body between the Bard and Griffin, grappling with the creature one-handed. It's feet curl to rake sharp claws into the Griffin's underbelly, keeping the Griffin's head firmly trapped within the curl of it's free arm. It writhed and screamed, vile-smelling blood spilling out onto the gravel as the second beast's feet sunk further into the gory mess that was once the Griffin's abdomen. Jaskier gagged, his significantly smaller hand dwarfed when he blindly reached out to grab a fistful of the unexpectedly soft white fur that covered the beast's flexing arm.

The Griffin made a wet hissing sound before going still, the sickening squelch of the beast's feet pulling out of it's squishy insides was the final straw. Jaskier leaned to the side, his meager dinner clawing up his throat to expel onto the ground. He panted through the incessant cramping of his stomach, groaning in relief when his painful heaves subsided. Jaskier carefully straightened his posture, his forehead dropped to rest against the blissful velvet that was the furry creature's wrist.

"Uh...thank you. Now if you could just  _ not _ eat me, that would be _ great."  _ Jaskier blinked when the hand against his chest slowly pulled away, forcing his neck to take up supporting his head once again. The beast's eyes were completely black, equally dark veins standing out against the shortly cropped fur around the seemingly bottomless inky pools. Even hunched over like it was, the beast was still  _ considerably _ taller than him. It's hand alone had effortlessly covered the majority of his torso, which was as astonishing as it was horrifying. It gave Jaskier it's back, the thick muscles shifting as it poked and sniffed at the deceased Griffin.

Now that the flood adrenaline was wearing off, Jaskier took this rare opportunity to observe the oddly tame creature before him. It was at  _ least _ eight feet tall standing up, broad shouldered with arms that would put tree trunks to shame. It's humanoid hands were adorned with two-inch long nails that were seriously intimidating, Jaskier's throat clicked dryly when he tried to swallow. It's barrel chest slimmed into a narrow waist, and that's where it got weird. The beast clearly had some sort of canine descent, it had hind legs that continued the dog aesthetic with sizable paws, with the toe beans and everything!

Jaskier tipped his chin up in order to get a clear look at it's face, it's distinct canine features only solidified his growing belief that he was in the company of some sort of werewolf. It had a short, square muzzle that was embellished with teeth that were around two inches long. The fluffy white tail was unnaturally still and as long as Jaskier's arm span. It's perked ears flicked back toward him when his heart skipped a beat in his chest, as if it could  _ hear _ the fluttering rhythm of the organ behind his ribcage. Honestly, Jaskier didn't think it was such a far-fetched theory.

The beast's head swiveled around, the swirling midnight sky in it's eyes searching Jaskier's face. The Bard got the impression that it was confused as to why Jaskier hadn't made very good use of his lung capacity and run for the hills yet. But he couldn't possibly, there was so much Jaskier wanted to say, wanted to  _ ask _ . Instead, he settled for a quiet but heartfelt, "You saved my life. Thank you." That had the beast's head tilting, the gesture so human-like that it looked almost comical on the wolf. It huffed at him and Jaskier thought the noise came off as either amused or disbelieving.

"No, really. You have my gratitude, that would've been quite a grisly end for me if you hadn't stepped in." And so what if most logical, sane humans would have run off into the night, crying wolf to anyone who'd listen already? Jaskier didn't want to be treated like an idiot, he just didn't feel the need to be afraid of something that had readily come to his aid. Maybe that hadn't been it's  _ intention _ , but it's interference had allowed Jaskier to happily keep his insides where they were  _ supposed _ to be.

That counted for something.

"Hey! Where are you going!" He called after the hulking creature, hurrying after it. The Beast paused to grab the Griffin's corpse by it's talon-clad feet, dragging it's bounty along behind it. The Bard stumbled over a wayward root, squawking as he flailed. The beast jerked to a halt, teeth barred when it whirled around. It was poised to attack, as if it thought something had gotten a hold of the Bard. Jaskier took this opportunity to jog up to its side before slapping his hands on his knees and hunching over, panting from the physical exertion. The wolf could sure move fast when it wanted to, Jaskier had almost lost the creature to the surrounding darkness of the woods.

"I'm actually...uh...a  _ little _ off course from the road." Jaskier confessed, shrinking in on himself when the wolf continued to give him that intimidating blank stare. "I could use a guide to help me get back." His lips thinned into a tight line, praying that the animal would be patient with him for a bit longer. After a tense moment of silence, the wolf snorted and dropped the body. The beast then proceeded to spin on its heel and start off in a random direction, causing a ridiculous amount of hope to rise in Jaskier's chest. The Bard released a breath of relief, following after the massive creature.

It wasn't long before Jaskier lost sight of the beast in the blackness that swallowed him up, the sinister looking trees blocking even the moonlight from coming in through the dense leaves. He could feel his heartbeat pick up, every little sound caused him to jump in fright. He swore that there were hungry eyes among the plants and faces watching him from the twisted branches. He startled violently when soft fur brushed up against his right side, the tension seeping out of Jaskier's frame with his next exhale when he realized that it was only his new wolf friend.

The wolf had probably heard his rabbiting heart and came to investigate, so Jaskier jumped right into calming himself down with some deep breathing as the wolf slowly circled him. Others would find a giant wolf's predatory pacing as threatening, but the action had a more protective feel to Jaskier, like it was placing itself between the breakable human and danger. The next time the beast passed in front of him, Jaskier bravely reached out to catch it's long, fluffy tail in the loose curl of his fingers. The creature froze mid-step at the bold touch and Jaskier cringed, waiting for his arm to be bitten off. When nothing of the mauling sort happened, the Bard took it as a sign that he could keep his grip on the oddly still appendage.

It would be easier to lead him through the dark woods like this anyway.

As soon as they made it back to the road, the beast aggressively ripped it's tail from his grasp. Jaskier was a bit taken aback by the violent action seeing as it's tail had been nothing but a limp noodle in the loose curl of his fingers the whole trip back. The creature turned it's expectant stare on the human, crouching down to make itself appear smaller. Jaskier was oddly touched by the instinctive gesture, fondness for the creature before him flooding his chest. The Bard knew one thing for certain, he  _ definitely _ didn't want to go separate ways yet.

"I...um...I don't actually remember which way I came from." And wasn't that the truth, Jaskier had gotten insanely turned around during the chaos of the attack. He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, glancing up at the wolf with hopeful eyes. "You think you could bring me to the next town?" He tried, pushing his luck. The beast regarded him questioningly, but the Bard couldn't read minds, so he just lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug. The wolf snorted -in frustration or annoyance, Jaskier wasn't sure- before quickly glancing down both stretches of road.

The beast shook itself before retreating from the road, it's panting breaths ringing loudly in the Bard's ears. Distressed by it's abandonment, Jaskier's mouth dropped open to protest. His words promptly dying on his tongue when he heard the distinct crack of bones breaking, the sharp, echoing snap of the beast's joints had the hair on the back of Jaskier's neck standing on end. The Bard's feet instinctively brought him a few steps closer to the writhing creature, which had hunched over as it's skeleton rearranged itself.

It’s growls and whines tore at Jaskier's heart, it's teeth grit as if to muffle it's own sounds of pain. The Bard swallowed thickly when the beast's fur started to fall off in clumps, revealing the sensitive pink skin underneath. The fluttering white strands smoldered, burning away into nothing. The white locks on top of it's head lengthened, the sweaty strands framing a human face. The snarling subsided when the horrible sounds stopped, leaving a stunned Jaskier to gape at the shivering human that now sat where the beast once had.

The man pushed up onto his slightly unsteady feet, putting his  _ very _ impressive physique on display. A brief glance downward reminded the Bard that the stranger was as naked as the day he was born, and his face immediately warmed in embarrassment. A feeble squeaked tore from Jaskier's throat before he slapped his shaking hands over his eyes, whipping around to face away from the indifferent stranger. "A  _ warning _ would've been nice!" He screeched, dismayed to find that his voice had rocketed up two whole octaves. The man grunted, apparently he was as nonverbal in this form as he was in his werewolf one.

"You don't need to cover your eyes  _ and _ turn around. Just pick one." The man sounded like he gargled gravel every morning, and Jaskier wouldn't be surprised if that were indeed the case. His low, throaty rumble had an animalistic growl to it. His voice was as hot as he was, and that just wasn't fair. Jaskier spun around when a sharp whistle pierced through the quiet, blinking at the man incredulously. He stubbornly kept his gaze on the other's face, he wanted to keep all his limbs right where they were  _ thank you.  _ The Bard doubted openly leering at the man would end well, he seemed like the  _ I'll-kill-you-for-looking-at-me-wrong type. _

Now that he was actively observing the man's chiseled features, he realized that the other's eyes were the color of liquid gold, his pupils thinned into cat-like slits. The eerily bright shade had alarm bells going off in his brain, Jaskier stubbornly ignored the instinctive swell of his fight or flight response. He couldn't deny that something about the stranger kept nagging him, but he had more pressing matters to worry about at the moment.

"Are you signaling your location to someone? Are there more of you? Oh god, are you calling them here so they can eat me!? I taste disgusting l'll have you know, all skin and bone here. Not tasty at all-" Jaskier's panicked rambling was cut off when the bushes to his right rustled, his breath freezing in his chest when a dark form emerged from the foliage. The silhouette drew closer and the Bard choked on his own saliva, humiliation immediately drowning out his fear when he realized that the creature that had callously trotted past him was a  _ horse _ for god's sake.

It clomped right up to the stranger, butting it's head against the man's chest. Jaskier didn't think it was possible to be  _ jealous _ of a horse, but there was a first time for everything apparently. The man stepped out of his sight, using the mare's flank to shield him from Jaskier's prying eyes. The Bard heard the clasp of what was probably a saddlebag being undone, the distinct rustle of fabric following. Something glinted in the moonlight when the horse impatiently stopped it's hoof, drawing Jaskier's eyes to the sword that was strapped to the side of the saddle.

The man stepped around the horse, back into the Bard's eyesight. He dug through another satchel, but kept glancing over at Jaskier like he was expecting the Bard to bolt at any moment, which was uncalled for and insulting frankly. Jaskier's brows furrowed when he noticed the second sword that was sheathed on the man's back. "Hold on a second." Jaskier blurted, the pieces steadily sliding into place. "Big, scary werewolf that turns into a man with white hair and strange gold eyes, who carries -not one- but  _ two _ swords." Jaskier was obviously in the presence of a  _ Witcher,  _ and not just _ any _ Witcher either, he was standing not  _ five feet _ away from-

"Geralt of Rivia. I'm right, aren't I?" Jaskier breathed, feeling an overwhelming urge to pinch himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming. The man-no,  _ Geralt, _ stiffened. "It's really you, the Butcher of Blaviken." Jaskier regretted voicing the crude nickname the moment it was out in the open, especially when the thoughtless words earned him a truly  _ icy _ glare. The Witcher's luminescent eyes were arctic cold, his mouth set into a hateful sneer. The Bard couldn't help but cringe, he wouldn't blame Geralt if he decided to punch him in the gut or something.

"Hold on, where are you going?" Dread pooled in Jaskier' stomach when Geralt swung himself up onto his steed's back, his mouth-watering biceps flexing when he tugged on the reins to direct the horse in the opposite direction of where the Bard stood. The blatant disregard felt like a physical blow, but he didn't hold it against the Witcher. Geralt had saved his sorry ass and got called a  _ murderer _ in return, it was no less than he deserved. "Wait! I'm sorry, that was rude. Forgive my slip of the tongue. I'm Jaskier, by the way." It was hard to see Geralt as the so-called  _ 'Butcher' _ he'd been labeled as, the Bard didn't see a killer when he looked at the Witcher.

He saw something else entirely.

Jaskier's legs were moving before his brain actively told them to do so, each step eating up the distance between them. He slowed when he reached the mare's side, his lips pulling up into a sunny grin when Geralt glanced down at him. "Go away." The Witcher groused, two sets of inhumanly sharp canines flashing when his lip twitched up. Jaskier waited for that twinge of fear to rise at the hostile display, his smile only widening when there was nothing. "Oh, come on! I could be your barker! I could help clear your name, sing about all your heroic deeds!" He threw his arms out wide, careful not to accidentally smack the horse. He had a feeling that harming Geralt's steed would be an offense worse than bringing up Geralt's past, and he wanted to get on the Witcher's good side.

"Real adventures would make better stories anyway." Jaskier pointed out.


	2. And Into The Forest I Go (To Lose My Mind And Find My Soul)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt offered the occasional 'hmm', somehow managing to grunt his way through roughly three hours of unrelenting chatter before he finally snapped.
> 
> "Dammit Jaskier!" He roared, twisting around to pin the Bard in place with wild eyes. The enraged Witcher made quite the intimidating sight, the sudden explosion of anger startling Jaskier into biting his tongue. The iron tasted like defeat. "Shut. Up." He sneered, piercing molten gaze promising pain were he to not heed the Witcher's warning.

Jaskier absentmindedly plucked at his lute strings, his silver tongue trying to wrestle the events of the prior battle into a song. The contract had been a bloodthirsty werewolf that'd escalated from killing livestock to a young woman, so Geralt stepped in for little more than fifty crowns that had been begrudgingly coughed up by the pompous Lord who'd posted the contract in the first place. Ungrateful prick. The next town was a little over a day away, and they'd started the trek bright and early.

Jaskier had woken up and found, to his absolute _ horror, _ that Geralt and his things were nowhere to be seen. The blind panic that surged through his veins had him scrambling up to hastily stuff all his things back into his lute case before stampeding down the stairs and out the tavern door without so much as a flirty wink to the innkeeper's wife, who'd paused her scrubbing of the counter when Jaskier hurtled clear over a misplaced chair before shouldering his way outside.

He went straight to the sables, praying he wasn't too late and that Geralt hadn't finally had enough of Jaskier's company. His lungs froze up the moment he caught sight of familiar white hair, relief and hurt battling for dominance when he realized that Geralt was already seated atop Roach's saddle and guiding her out toward the road. The Witcher's sharp molten eyes flicked toward him, his face hardening into something unreadable. It was clear that he hadn't expected Jaskier to catch him in the act of abandoning him, which caused something heavy to settle onto his shoulders. He shrugged, trying to shake off the weight. He was unsuccessful, so he did the next best thing.

He ignored the shit out of it.

Jaskier plastered a smile onto his face, holding it for two whole hours as he trailed after Geralt. He tried to keep his talking to a minimum, but it wasn't long before the Bard became fidgety with boredom. As amazing as Geralt was as a - Bodyguard? Travel companion? Friend? - he was absolutely  _ terrible _ with small-talk. The man spent hours at a time silently ignoring Jaskier and his blabbering, making a point of riding two feet ahead of Jaskier at all times. Not to mention the fact that every time he managed to catch up, Geralt would only spur Roach faster to outpace him once again. He found the action hurtful, but didn't complain.

Geralt was entitled to his personal space.

So he slapped a metaphorical patch onto the metaphorical wound left on his heart and pressed on, blurting out whatever questions came to mind. _Geralt, you think we could take a break? Geralt, why do you think those flowers are growing there? Geralt, do you think there are any monsters in the area? Geralt, when was the last time you got new clothes? Geralt, Geralt, Geralt..._ until the Witcher was practically fuming, forced to acknowledge the Bard. If only to tell him to _shut_ _up_ with that deep, rumbling growl of his that bared inhumanly sharp canines.

The Witcher had a nasty habit of being short and curt with people, and Jaskier was no exception. Geralt constantly threw threats of leaving the Bard behind in Jaskier's face, mercilessly insulting him and his profession every waking moment. The Bard knew that the Witcher was trying to push him away, waiting for him to misstep and give Geralt the reason he needed to kick Jaskier to the curb. Thankfully, Geralt had yet the opportunity to follow through with his warnings. But Jaskier didn't doubt that the minute he let his guard down, the Witcher would disappear.

So, as the two men trudged along, Jaskier managed to keep himself mostly occupied with his lute. He played random tunes until his fingers were sore and his voice hoarse, then he switched to waxing verses about the beauty of their surroundings and rambling about his thoughts on the plants, animals, and colors among the dense forest that encroached in on both sides of the worn path. Geralt offered the occasional 'hmm', somehow managing to grunt his way through roughly  _ three hours _ of unrelenting chatter before he finally snapped.

"Dammit Jaskier!" He roared, twisting around to pin the Bard in place with wild eyes. The enraged Witcher made quite the intimidating sight, the sudden explosion of anger startling Jaskier into biting his tongue. The iron tasted like defeat.  _ "Shut. Up." _ He sneered, piercing molten gaze promising pain were he to not heed the Witcher's warning. When Jaskier still showed no signs of speaking two minutes into Geralt's staring contest, the Witcher huffed and promptly turned his attention back to the road ahead. Jaskier's heart plummeted to his stomach, which was currently tying itself into unhelpful knots.

He dragged his feet, keeping his gaze lowered to his scuffed boots. If Geralt wanted some quiet, he'd have to give it to him or risk being tossed aside. So, with only one clear option, he continued on with the Witcher silently, being extra careful about making excess noise. Five minutes into his new resolution, he stumbled over a rock in the road. Jaskier's wide eyes whipped up towards Geralt, trying to determine if this would be the time he screwed up too badly to mend. The dust that he'd accidentally kicked up had already settled by the time Jaskier realized the white-haired man wasn't going to do anything.

Jaskier let out a quiet breath of relief and was about to begin walking again when he spotted something glinting deep in the forest. He shifted back and forth in place just to make sure he wasn't imagining the shimmer. He wondered if it was something interesting, like a sword or chest filled with riches. Jaskier took one last glance at Geralt, who was now a good fifteen feet away from the Bard and had yet to look back or even notice his absence. Jaskier debated the stupidity of going unarmed and Witcherless into the woodland but if it was something helpful, then it would have been well worth the danger.

Not to mention the fact that, by the time Jaskier had acquired said object and arrived back on the road, Geralt would most likely be far, _ far _ ahead of him. He took a step towards the edge of the road, the light reflecting off the mystery object tantalizingly. With his decision made, Jaskier stepped off the path with a new determination and marched into the shrubbery, out of view from the road.

He could always catch up.

* * *

The first thing that tipped Geralt off that something wasn't quite right was, surprisingly, the silence. And unless Jaskier had suddenly gained the ability to stop his heartbeat, breathing, and scraping footsteps, then the lack of sound could only mean that the Bard was no longer following him. The Witcher inhaled deeply, just to make sure that his ears were not, in fact, fooling him. The Bard's scent of honey and dandelions had soured, but it wasn't the same bitter sting that he'd come to identify as fear.

He'd smelt it on grieving mothers before, when their children were snatched up in the night by the beasts that thrived in it. When they were begging him to bring them back, to rid their town of the culprit. The smell only intensified when he inevitably brought back a body, or several. Then came the familiar bite of burning rot that could only be anger, the vile odor made the Witcher's nose itch. It always seemed to saturate his armor, which brought forth a foolish urge to bathe just to get the lingering scent  _ off _ of him.

But the strange Bard had never smelt of anger  _ or _ fear while in his presence, so this unusual tart scent had his hackles rising. He glanced behind him, confirming that the Bard was indeed absent. He pulled Roach to a halt, not really knowing - or understanding -  _ why _ he did so. He should just keep moving, if the idiotic Bard had  _ finally _ gotten the hint and went on his way, it was a  _ blessing  _ dammit. Geralt's lip curled back when the wind picked up, mocking him with the acidic fragrance of a wilting flower.

"Fuck." He snarled, yanking on the reins to turn Roach around. The agitated Witcher only managed a few yards before he jerked his mare to a stop once again, Roach protesting against the hold-up with an irked stomp of her front hoof. Geralt was no better, the inane desire to hit something washing over him like an ocean tide. He growled in annoyance at his own indecisiveness, Witchers didn't  _ need _ anyone else. Friends were a hindrance at best, a liability at worst. Not to mention that humans were an absurdly fragile species, able to be felled by a mere stumble.

Geralt grit his teeth, harshly reminding himself of what happened the last time he decided it was a good idea to get involved in the affairs of man. It had been a hard lesson learned, and it had been his first step into the rabbit hole that was human cruelty. Steeling his resolve, he tugged on the reins. Roach snorted judgmentally, but heeded his wordless instruction and turned. Geralt's whole body coiled when the breeze abruptly shifted, bringing with it a new scent, but one he knew all-too-well.

Blood.

The Witcher dismounted Roach with predatory grace, unsheathing his silver blade. The sharp tang of copper was infused with spruce and rain,  _ Jaskier's _ blood had been split. The frenzied snarl that ripped out of his vocal cords surprised him, as did the instinctive surge to protect that bubbled up. Geralt didn't have time to waste on picking apart the odd reaction, Jaskier was  _ wounded _ and  _ alone _ . The Witcher stormed into the forest, scenting the air almost obsessively.

It took him mere  _ seconds _ to find the trail, taking off after it at a dead sprint. Adrenaline hummed through his veins, the rush of the hunt flooding through him. The Witcher expertly weaved between the trees, effortlessly leaping over dense underbrush. And, despite the fact that he was running, his steps were almost silent. The scent was getting stronger, the repulsive smell chipping away at his already low reserve of self-control.

He burst into what looked like a campsite, sword held at the ready. The smell was originating from somewhere within, causing something dark and ugly to tighten in his chest. He sniffed the air, the fresh - borderline  _ overwhelming _ \- scent of Jaskier's blood masked any other scents that he might've been otherwise able to pick out. His lips twisted into an icy scowl, he'd have to rely on his other senses when it came to a potential ambush or sneak attack. He let his hearing reach out to the forest around him, identifying the numerous sounds that surrounded the tense Witcher.

Nothing appeared to be out of place, but he kept his ears on the woods on the off chance that he'd missed something...or  _ someone _ . His keen gaze swept over the deceptively empty camp, it looked like the travelers had just up and left the site. That was odd in itself, the fact that everything was untouched. Geralt marched over to the fire ring, squatting down to press his hand into the ashes. They were stone cold.

His eyes caught a glimpse of red on one of the nearby tree stumps and he stood on numb legs, striding over to the crimson splatter with a calm he didn't feel. It wasn't a lot of blood, but still a fair amount. Despite the churn of his stomach, he crouched to take a whiff. It was indeed Jaskier's, his grip tightened on the hit of his sword at the unwelcome confirmation. Geralt jerked to his feet, frenzied molten eyes sweeping over the soil to try and discern what  _ exactly _ had happened to his Bard.

* * *

The meager tin cup hit the ground with a crack that greatly satisfied Jaskier's seething frustration, glaring down at the offending object. He cursed the reflective metal and the sun to the darkest pits of hell, raking his fingers through his disheveled hair once again with a hissed obscenity. Geralt was going to be _ furious _ , which was most definitely a  _ grave _ understatement. Jaskier would have to have a closed-casket funeral, if anyone ever even managed to stumble upon his  _ mutilated corpse _ that is. He paced a bit, mumbling to himself.

But what if Geralt  _ didn't _ come looking?

He froze on the spot, the thought catching him off-guard. His stomach twisted itself into knots at the unsavory notion, the already rapid skip of his heart spiking. The breath left him with a great  _ whoosh _ , convincing the panicking Jaskier that his lungs had suddenly up and collapsed in on themselves. His reaction was quite pathetic really, cause what had he been  _ expecting? _ This was  _ Geralt _ . The very same grumpy Witcher who'd been trying to get  _ rid of him _ since day one.

The Bard's vision blurred, his leg instinctively shifting in an attempt to keep his swaying body upright. Unfortunately, when he stepped back, he lost his footing when his heel slipped on one of the flat stones that made up the ring around the fire pit. He was dazed for a hot minute when his back hit the ground, narrowly missing the jagged edges of the numerous blacked sticks that were plied in the pit. Jaskier made to roll over, hissing when fire raced up his left arm when he moved it.

Confused and more than a bit nauseated by the implications, he glanced down at the throbbing appendage in question. Face blanching at the blood that stained his torn sleeve, the crimson steadily saturating the dark fabric of his shirt. He gingerly moved his arm closer to his face, contorting the limb in order to take in the damage. The vertical cut started below his elbow and spanned the length of his forearm until it tempered off a few inches away from his wrist. It wasn't as bad as he'd first anticipated, but it was still bleeding quite a bit without showing signs of slowing or stopping.

With a heartfelt grimace, Jaskier ripped the ruined fabric at the seam before carefully shrugging it off. He'd picked up a few things about basic first-aid while on the road, which was now coming in handy. The Bard cursed up a storm as he efficiently wrapped up the worst of the cut and brutally tightened the ends into a knot with his free hand and teeth. He was panting by the time he was finished, but at least it was done and now he could contemplate what his next step was.

He should probably find his way to the road then backtrack to the previous town, the last thing he wanted was to run into Geralt. He could vividly imagine just  _ how _ that tense and awkward confrontation would go, and he'd rather avoid that possibility. With his path decided, he spun in a slow circle, dread settling like a heavy bolder next to his somersaulting stomach when he realized that he couldn't see which direction the road was.

"Oh...shit.  _ Seriously? _ I could see this damned camp from the road, how come I can't see the road from here? Maybe I'm facing the wrong way..." Jaskier turned in place again to no avail, the trees all looked the same to him. That certainly didn't bode well for him, not in the slightest. Staying out in the woods at night was dangerous even with an armed escort to watch your back, and downright  _ suicidal _ alone. Jaskier was sure that he'd be dead by sunrise, if not  _ much _ sooner.

"Fuck, I'm lost." The Bard admitted defeat, squinting at the nearly identical layout of forest that surrounded him before resolutely picking a random direction and boldly starting off. With any luck, he might manage to come across a town. But Jaskier knew one thing for sure, he didn't want to linger in the eerily silent,  _ abandoned _ campsite for too long. The place gave him a bad feeling, and it was probably empty for a  _ reason _ . So he marched off into the dense foliage with bravery he certainly didn't feel, and hoped for the best.

He'd only been tripping his way through the numerous bushes and the occasional overgrown root for at least half an hour before his foot finally snagged on the latter obstacle and he tipped forward to land with a truly  _ spectacular  _ face-plant. The Bard groaned as he rolled over,  _ loudly _ voicing his complaints to the heavens from his place on the ground, opting to just stay put and stew in his own misery. His arm was aching and felt fevered to the touch, Jaskier was wary to unwrap it and check to see if infection had set in.

He was as good as dead if it had.

"Ugh, fuck my life. I was going to do such great things! Now I'm going to die a horrible death... _ alone." _ He sighed, blinking rapidly against the sudden sting in his eyes. His stomach gave another pitiful gurgle, as it had been doing for the better part of his aimless wandering. "I don't want to die." He whispered, staring up at the lush green canopy. He didn't think he had the strength - or will - to get up, he'd be an easy meal for any monster that came by him.

"Jaskier! Fuck,  _ Jaskier!" _ The Bard in question lifted his head, more than a bit taken aback when  _ Geralt himself _ hastily dropped down onto his knees beside the musician's wounded arm. The Witcher spared a moment to aggressively stab his sword into the ground, within easy reach should he suddenly need it, before briskly patting Jaskier down to confirm that the Bard hadn't sustained any potentially life-threatening injuries.

For some reason that was unfathomable to Jaskier, Geralt's stiff shoulders slumped a bit when he didn't find evidence that the Bard was on the cusp of death. "What happened?" The question was grit out through clenched teeth, eyes burning with untapped wrath. The dry, rasping growl of Geralt's voice snapped Jaskier out of his stupor, the Bard hesitantly reaching out to rest his trembling hand on the Witcher's arm. It was warm and solid and  _ there _ .

This was  _ real _ .

"You actually came for me..." Jaskier was lightheaded with relief, his fingers going slack and slipping from their place on Geralt's armor. He thought he saw the Witcher's features pinch, but Jaskier's blurred vision made it hard to see him properly so he couldn't be sure. A sharp, familiar whistle suddenly pierced through the quiet, "We'll make camp here." Geralt rumbled, carefully untying Jaskier's makeshift bandage. He cradled the Bard's arm with a gentleness that Jaskier had previously thought him incapable of, turning the limb this way and that to look at the cut from all angles.

"It needs to be cleaned and wrapped with fresh bandages, but you'll be fine. Roach will find us soon." It took a minute for Jaskier to remember just  _ why _ that last bit about the mare was relevant, but then he recalled that the Witcher always left his supplies secured to Roach. "Good. I'll leave the rest to you then." Jaskier mumbled, exhaustion weighing down his body like a physical force. Jaskier's brows furrowed when he heard a choked sound, worriedly cracking his cornflower blue eyes open to squint at Geralt.

The Bard would have laughed at the downright  _ comical _ face the Witcher was making if he had the energy to do so; but unfortunately, at the moment, he really didn't. Geralt's lip had curled back to bare his impressive set of fangs, obviously confused as to the reason  _ why _ Jaskier would  _ voluntarily _ put himself in Geralt's  _ very _ capable hands. The Bard let his eyelids slip shut again, answering the Witcher's unasked question as if he had said it aloud.

"Because I trust you, hardass."


	3. Let Me Take Your Hand (I'll Make It Right)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Witcher left him to his ridiculous one-sided discussions, the Bard rambling on about everything and anything like a fool.
> 
> Until he suddenly wasn't.
> 
> Geralt tensed when he heard a distressed yelp, followed by the alarming sound of rocks sliding against each other. The Witcher carefully pulled back on the reins, Roach begrudgingly slowing to a stop. The silence dragged on, the sudden omission of sound ringing in his ears. He warily turned his sharp gaze to the empty road behind him, uncomprehending for all of two seconds before the implications behind the Bard's absence hit him like a knife to the gut.

The road stretched on for miles, not another traveler in sight. Which was fine by Geralt, he wasn't accustomed to company anyway. Well...that wasn't quite right. The Witcher glanced at Jaskier, who has been all-too-happy to entertain himself by holding a completely one-sided conversation for the past few hours. Geralt had instinctively tuned out his words, but couldn't quite find it in himself to dismiss the tone in which he spoke. He begrudgingly found himself attentively listening to every hitch in the Bard's breath, or the pause between his words.

Jaskier's mood was always changing, his scent of spruce, rain, and dandelions shifting so often that he was starting to get a headache from trying to identify all the emotions that the musician managed to flip through within a handful of minutes. The Witcher set his jaw against his rising irritability, he didn't want to snap at the Bard and have him quiet his musings. The silence would only just put him on edge, especially with what happened when he blew up at the Bard a few weeks back. Sure, his yammering got on Geralt's nerves, but he'd take the migraine over the deafening quiet that'd buzzed in his ears when Jaskier went missing  _ any _ day.

Just remembering the incident had Geralt checking to make sure the Bard was still beside him, his unnaturally slow heartbeat faltering when he found Jaskier's usual spot barren of the musician. His head whipped around, something dark and ugly tightening in his chest until he caught sight of the Bard. The idiot was crouched down on the side of the road, examining the colorful wildflowers that grew next to the trail. Geralt forcibly relaxed his white-knuckle grip on the reins, sucking in a deep breath. Jaskier smelt of warmth, honey, and morning dew. The Witcher vaguely recognized the scent, it was one that the Bard normally exuded while playing for an attentive audience.

"Jaskier." Geralt barked, his brows drawing together at his own tone. The Bard's name had come out harsher than he'd intended, but Jaskier's scent didn't sour like the Witcher had expected. The smell of morning dew slipped into something more salty, like the ocean. It wasn't unpleasant, not in the slightest. he pulled Roach to a halt when Jaskier braced his hands on his knees, straightening with a sheepish smile. In the face of the musician's jolly mood, Geralt promptly smoothed his expression into something more neutral.

He didn't want the Bard to think he was angry.

"Sorry, I couldn't help myself. They're quite beautiful." Jaskier sauntered back to Roach's flank, completely at ease with walking beside a Witcher. A being that had been mutated so severely that he was no longer a man, but not quite a monster either. The Bard didn't seem to mind the more savage part of himself if their first meeting was anything to go by, the fear had faded from Jaskier's scent the second the Griffin had been dealt with. Then the Bard had turned his awed stare to his beastly form, accepting the animalistic part of Geralt without so much as blinking.

The alarmingly friendly Bard was bursting with questions, whether he asked about Geralt in specific or Witchers in general, his curiosity was always genuine. That in itself was surprising, but Jaskier took it to a  _ whole other level _ by making a semi-successful effort not to interrupt Geralt when we actually felt like answering the Bard's inquiries with more than vague grunts or unhelpful one-word responses. He was shocked to find that Jaskier appreciated those instances where Geralt willingly - if begrudgingly - told the Bard about himself or his fellow Witchers.

"Oh...oh dear. Geralt, we have a problem." The wariness in Jaskier's tone paired with the sudden bitterness of fear that oozed into the Bard's usually pleasant scent pulled Geralt back to the present and, without thinking, his hand swiftly reached up to grab the hilt of his iron blade. Lip curling in warning as his blazing eyes swept across the woodland around them, Jaskier's amused huff had Geralt glancing down at the grinning Bard.

"I was talking about  _ that." _ Jaskier pointed ahead of them, Geralt's molten gaze following the digit to the terrain that lay ahead. The Witcher frowned at the narrow path, it was more cramped then he remembered it being. But, then again, he hadn't been on this particular route for several years. He figured that the erosion over time explained the limited walking room. Geralt was forced to ride Roach across the path since it wasn't wide enough for him to walk next to her, and while he knew the added weight was risky, he didn't really see any other option. He made sure to go first, instructing Jaskier to follow close behind.

Jaskier agreed easily enough, stepping aside so the Witcher could urge Roach forward. The Bard was quiet for a long moment, but jumped right back into explaining the differences between lutes when Geralt twisted around on the saddle to check on him. He hummed whenever Jaskier paused his chatter, correctly assuming that the Bard was waiting for feedback. Jaskier never smelt frustrated or put-off by Geralt's lack of communication, he just spoke more to fill up the empty space. The Witcher left him to his ridiculous one-sided discussions, the Bard rambling on about everything and anything like a fool.

Until he suddenly wasn't.

Geralt tensed when he heard a distressed yelp, followed by the alarming sound of rocks sliding against each other. The Witcher carefully pulled back on the reins, Roach begrudgingly slowing to a stop. The silence dragged on, the sudden omission of sound ringing in his ears. He warily turned his sharp gaze to the empty road behind him, uncomprehending for all of two seconds before the implications behind the Bard's absence hit him like a knife to the gut.

Geralt scrambled to get his feet underneath him, lunging off Roach's saddle. The mare nickered at him in annoyance, her hooves scraping against the gravel when Geralt threw himself from her back. He hit the ground running, grinding to a precarious halt right at the crumbling edge. With no consideration for his own safety, he moved so close to the ledge that only his heels were on solid ground. A waterfall roared in his ears when he looked down and spotted Jaskier, bile pushing up his esophagus. The Bard was lying on a short ledge roughly twenty feet below, a pool of crimson steadily growing underneath his head.

"Jaskier!" No response, the musician didn't so much as twitch. Geralt's breaths tore from his lungs in heaving pants, as if he'd taken on a whole swamp of Drowners instead of sprinting a few feet. It was unbecoming of a Witcher, reacting like some civilian in the face of what was most likely Jaskier's death. So he forced down the flood of emotions that threatened to choke him, and took a deep breath. The Witcher couldn't tell if Jaskier was breathing, he was too far away. So Geralt closed his eyes and concentrated on hearing any signs of life over his own thundering heart.

There.

A sluggish, but strong pulse that could only belong to Jaskier. Geralt was gutted with relief, spinning on his heel to rush back to where Roach waited for him like the loyal steed she was. She shifted a bit when Geralt threw one of the saddle bags open, impatiently sorting through his collection of bottles until he found the potion he was looking for. The Witcher pulled the stopper out of a vial that contained a murky white substance, he tossed the concoction back and grimaced at the revolting taste of sugar and rotting meat.

Geralt threw the empty bottle away, tearing out of his armor and carelessly tossing it aside as the potion took hold. It always started with an unnatural heat that would bloom in his mouth, the warmth spreading outward from his stomach. It only took a few seconds before the cramping started, and then the breaking of bones would swiftly follow. The next few minutes were a blur of pain, and it was all he could do not to scream himself hoarse.

His limbs contorted as if they had a mind of their own, situating themselves in a different order. His gums ached as his teeth grew, his jaw dislocating with a pop that sent a ripple of liquid fire down his spine. He howled in agony when his skull cracked open and reshaped, his facial features rearranging themselves much like the rest of his body was. A thick coat of white fur sprouted, knees snapping backward. He dropped onto all fours, a grotesque tail of muscle-covered bone bursting through the fur at the base of his spine.

Then it was finally over, the sharp flare of pain dulling down to a soreness he could tolerate. Geralt unsteadily lurched to his feet, the meager lunch of dried meat and stale bread crawled up his throat to expel onto the ground. Everything was heightened in this form, his skin was too sensitive, the sun too bright for his eyes, the hundreds upon  _ thousands _ of smells too strong, each rustle of leaves rattling his eardrums. He didn't have time to adjust though, this wasn't a hunt.

This was  _ Jaskier _ .

Geralt lunged forward, back paws ripping up chunks of dirt and grass in his desperate scramble. In three bounds he was leaping off the cliff, twisting mid-air to dig his claws into the rock to slow his descent. His tail shifted, shielding Jaskier's face from the resulting debris. Geralt came to an unsteady halt over the limp bard, his frame dwarfing the other's. Jaskier suddenly looked so small, too small for comfort. It reminded him of just how human the Bard was, how breakable. Geralt locked those thoughts away to deal with later, adjusting his grip in an effort not to slip off the slim overhang.

When he was confident that his hold on the cliff was stable, one of Geralt's clawed hands moved away from the rock to reach for Jaskier's bloody figure, his fingers managed to brush against the silky fabric of the Bard's shirt before his back paw slipped off the ledge. His hand swiftly retreated back to the cliff to find purchase before he plummeted to his own untimely demise, he just barely managed to steady himself. The Witcher snarled when he realized he couldn't afford to release his grip in order to check the extent of the Bard's injuries, he'd have to proceed without knowing and risk making the damage worse.

They were too far away from any towns, so Geralt couldn't go get the medical help that Jaskier most definitely needed. And even if he could, he didn't think he'd be able to force himself to leave Jaskier on the ledge to wake up alone, or worse yet...fall off. The Witcher's teeth ground together, a constant growl of frustration rumbling in his chest. He didn't have rope to pull Jaskier up with, so that left the Witcher with only one solution to the predicament he'd found himself in.

Geralt contorted his torso in order to get his mouth closer to Jaskier's right shoulder, jaws splitting wide. He carefully closed his maw over the fabric, making sure he had a tight enough grip without sinking his fangs into the delicate skin underneath. He could only hope that Jaskier would stay unconscious through the grueling climb that was soon to come, he didn't need the Bard waking up and panicking. The flailing would dislodge the Witcher's grip, which would cause one or both of them to plummet to their death.

The climb back to the path was slow, each carefully calculated movement filled with a suffocating amount of tension. The smell of Jaskier's blood wasn't helping matters any, and tasting it was worse. The Bard's head wound was still steadily pumping out blood, the dripping rivets slithering through his teeth to hit his tongue. The coppery taste made his stomach churn, which was alarming because Geralt wasn't squeamish. He whined when his teeth punctured the silk shirt and pricked skin, he was hit with the overwhelming urge to wash his mouth out with soap.

After what felt like an eternity, Geralt's fingers finally clawed into grass and he hauled the both of them up onto solid ground. He scrambled to his feet, massive hands curling around Jaskier's waist, his jaw immediately loosened on the Bard. He turned his head away to spit a glob of red out onto the grass before turning to march over to Roach. He'd started carrying medicine and medical supplies after Jaskier wandered off and sliced his arm, which turned out to be a good decision. The Witcher had come to learn that his Bard seemed to  _ attract _ danger, he had a serious case of  _ always _ being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Geralt straightened and moved toward where Roach was impatiently waiting only to jerk to a stop when the lump of human behind him gave a low groan of discomfort. He swiveled around and hurried back, but not fast enough to keep Jaskier from attempting to sit up. The Bard only managed to prop himself up on his elbows before the pain registered and he gasped, flopping back down with a hiss. Geralt was careful to keep his claws away from the Bard, not wanting to accidentally cut him on top of the other injuries he'd sustained.

Jaskier's eyes blinked into exhausted slits, his brows furrowing in confusion. Geralt stiffened when the Bard's gaze focused onto his hulking, wolfish figure. Jaskier's pupils sluggishly dilated, which Geralt knew to be a bad sign. Of course, the Witcher was aware that Jaskier had seen him in this form many times before, but the man was clearly concussed. He had no way of knowing how Jaskier would react in this disoriented state, and he dreaded the fear that was likely to flood the Bard's scent.

And Geralt was right about Jaskier being unpredictable, but not in the way he'd expected. Once Jaskier processed what exactly was hovering over him, his lips pulled up into a groggy smile. A soft, genuine thing, and reached a hand up towards Geralt's muzzle. The Witcher froze, even his tail ceased it's anxious twitching. His worry turned out to be unnecessary seeing as Jaskier was the furthest thing from frightened; on the contrary, he boldly pressed his hand in-between the white wolf's brow, dragging his fingers down towards the Witcher's nose in a soothing motion. He sloppily repeated the action twice more before his arm went limp, Geralt caught his wrist and gently lowered Jaskier's arm back to his side.

"Gr'lt." Jaskier breathed happily in a butchered attempt at his name, but it made something deep inside the Witcher's chest warm. He huffed out a breath, letting the hot air caress the hair not plastered to the musician's forehead. When he pulled back it became apparent that Jaskier had passed out again, which reminded Geralt of what was at stake here. So he pushed to his feet and moved as far away from Jaskier as he felt comfortable with, and cleared his mind.

The heat started in his chest this time, surging through his limbs like a wave. The shift back wasn't nearly as painful as the initial one, and he was in his human form in under a minute. Knowing that Jaskier would be complaining about his lack of dress were he awake and aware, he jogged to Roach's flank to dig out a pair of pants from one of the saddlebags. He opted to forgo all other garments in his haste to tend to Jaskier, but he did swiftly tie his hair back.

He stooped to his knees beside the bard, who remained as still as death, and decided his main priority was finding the origin of the blood. He already had an idea of what was wrong, which was confirmed when he moved Jaskier's head to the side, revealing a nasty gash near his hairline. He attentively watched Jaskier's face for signs of pain as he carefully prodded at the Bard's clothed figure. Unfortunately, the musician stayed as silent and unresponsive as he was on the ledge, forcing Geralt to resort to peeling off the Bard's outfit. The musician's usually vibrant-colored clothes were covered in a thick layer of dirt and grime, the collar of Jaskier's shirt soaked in blood.

Geralt started with tugging Jaskier's pliant body out of his top layer, rolling up the cotton cloth beneath to expose his torso. The Witcher's mouth tightened into a grim line at the sight of the red and purple splotches that hinted at a developing bruise. The array of stomach-churning color took up most of the Bard's left side, and Geralt was relieved that he'd pulled Jaskier up the cliff by his right shoulder. He spared a glance at the small puncture marks his teeth left, the beads of blood had already scabbed over.

He breathed out, letting the reassuring rhythm of Jaskier's heart calm his raging instincts.

* * *

The first thing Jaskier registered upon waking, was pain. The sharp throb of agony surged through his abused nerves with each labored breath. He squinted his eyes open, face scrunching in confusion when he realized that it was night. The last thing he remembered was...falling? That's right, he could recall the distinct sensation of being weightless. But everything was fuzzy after that, he was pretty sure that he remembered something about a wolf looming over him? Jaskier shifted, trying to gauge just how damaged his supple flesh was.

"Stop." The Bard did not squeak in fright at the familiar baritone, no he did not. "A few of your ribs are cracked, most of them bruised. You also have a concussion, so you're not going anywhere." That was most Geralt has said in the past week if Jaskier wasn't mistaken. He heeded the Witcher's demand and settled against what Jaskier assumed to be Geralt's cloak. It had been folded up and propped behind his aching back to protect what had to be some seriously  _ nasty _ bruising from the rough bark of the tree he was leaning against.

"Right...obviously." The following silence was thick with unasked questions and Jaskier squirmed a bit before the uncomfortable pulling of his injuries halted his anxious movement. So he turned his attention away from the unease that stooped low in his stomach in favor of watching Geralt. The Witcher was seated by his feet, so close that his boots were pressed against Geralt's thigh. The Witcher was busy avoiding direct eye contact, poking at the flame consumed wood with a stick, sending bursts of bright ashes into the air.

"Did-" Jaskier's eyes follow the glowing embers as they float up into the night sky, pausing when his voice cracks on the word. He clears his throat, mouth suddenly very dry. "Did I fall off the cliff?" The Bard took Geralt's guilt-ridden silence as confirmation, his eyes immediately drop down to gawk at his cloth shirt. He raises a shaky hand to pull the collar away from his body, balking at the swathe of bandages that enveloped his torso.

"Holy shit...how the fuck am I  _ alive?!" _ The Bard's voice jumped up three octaves in bewilderment, arm dropping into his lap. Jaskier absentmindedly picked at the fabric, horrible images of what could've happened to him flashing through his mind's-eye. It was more of a rhetorical question, he really didn't need to know all the unsavory details. Unfortunately, Geralt seemed to think that the Bard actually  _ expected _ an answer.

"I took a potion." And that explained... _ absolutely nothing _ . Which was both good and seriously infuriating, because now he  _ wanted _ to know more. Sadly, Geralt's tone made it quite clear that the conversation was over, but Jaskier had a knack for never knowing when to quit. He whipped up a strategy to get the tight-lipped Witcher to spill, thoughtlessly scratching at his itchy shoulder. His brows furrowed when something flaked off, he dipped his head and blinked owlishly at the scabbed pinpricks and irritated red lines he found.

The pattern was oddly familiar, almost as if…

"That wolf." Jaskier muttered, poking at the distinct teeth marks. The Bard stilled, face going slack with shock. His eyes snapped to Geralt and the Witcher hunched in on himself, as if he could sense Jaskier's burning stare on his back. "You bit me!?" He squawked, disbelieving. Geralt flinched as if Jaskier had just hit him. The Bard's brows furrow when Geralt slowly turned, his expression tight. The Witcher looked quite similar to a kicked dog, Geralt's slumped posture and lowered head screamed submission. He was trying not to come off as a threat to Jaskier, which was ridiculous because the Bard wasn't afraid. Confounded...yes, but not fearful.

"No, hold on. I don't care. Just...thank you, for helping." The last thing Jaskier wanted was Geralt to get it in his head that he'd done some horrible wrong to the Bard. Apparently it was the incorrect thing to say because Geralt stiffened, leveling Jaskier with an incredulous look. The musician went over his words, wincing when he realized where he'd shoved his foot in his mouth. "Not that I don't think you'd help of course! I-" The Witcher's lamenting frown deepened with anger, eyes steely.

"It's not like we're  _ friends _ or anything, perfectly reasonable to believe I'd just... _ leave." _ He snarled, but it felt like the words were more directed at Geralt himself then the Bard. "You wouldn't, you proved that when you came looking for me when you didn't have to. Just take the thank you like a normal person, you brute." Jaskier nudged his foot against Geralt's side, a broad grin forming on his lips when the tension eased out of the Witcher's form.

The noncommittal hum was expected and whole-heartedly welcomed, Jaskier huffing out a laugh at Geralt's antics. "Ugh, how am I still tired? I slept for the whole day!" The Bard complained, cringing through a yawn that had his ribs screaming. Geralt shifted back a little further, Jaskier's calves now flush against the Witcher's hip. Geralt seemed to be craving close proximity to him, which was a new development in their relationship. Something fluttered in the Bard's stomach, filling him with overflowing affection for the secretly soft Witcher.

Geralt twisted to the side, flipping open what looked like a saddle bag to dig out a small vial. Jaskier raised a brow when the Witcher popped the cork out and practically shoved the strange bottle into the Bard's hands. Jaskier eyed it skeptically, Geralt had once told him that Witcher potions would kill a human. But here he was, wordlessly demanding that the musician drink whatever concoction was in the vial. He must've been projecting his reservations on the matter, because Geralt gruffly clarified.

"It's not a Witcher potion, bought it from a healer. It helps mend bone faster and dulls pain. Drink this first, then sleep." Geralt grunted, the Witcher didn't turn away until Jaskier lifted the bottle to his lips. The Bard braced himself for some sort of horrid flavor and swallowed the liquid, licking his lips with a surprised sound of delight when the taste of raspberries exploded on his tongue. His eyelids drooped as warmth settled in his chest to ease the ache that he hadn't even fully realized was there.

"I like that stuff, feels nice." Jaskier commented, smiling lazily with relief when he found that he could breathe easier. "Thanks Geralt, you're wonderful." He mumbled drowsily, snorting in amusement when the Witcher's head whipped around. Their eyes met and Jaskier suddenly found himself enthralled by the way the fire reflected in Geralt's molten gaze. The reds, oranges, and golds in each iris swirling into a glowing inferno, drawing Jaskier in like a moth to a flame.

"Goodnight." Jaskier blindly threw a hand out to pat Geralt's back, letting the appendage linger on the furnace that was the Witcher for a few seconds longer than was strictly necessary. The musician was surprised when Geralt didn't immediately pull away from the touch. He didn't give Jaskier a look either, on the contrary, his eyes shifted away from Jaskier and back to the crackling flames. The Witcher's muscles flexed against the Bard's palm, the rippling movement under his skin a contrast to how unnaturally still he was. Jaskier's hand drew away, and he settled it on his stomach. His half-lidded gaze observed the Witcher in the light that the fire provided, the Bard swallowing down a laugh each time Geralt sniffed at the air like some sort of animal.

The next morning, when he eventually blinked back into consciousness, Jaskier wouldn't be able to recall exactly when he'd fallen asleep.


	4. One Will Fall (And One Will Rise)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ger-" Before his vocals could fully form the Witcher's name, something large and heavy barreled into him from behind. His teeth slam down on his tongue with such force that the sharp tang of iron fills his mouth, and he unceremoniously finds himself pressed into the ground by two massive paws. The pain is excruciating, and he can feel something in his chest give with a sharp pop. His jaw dropped open, vocal cords releasing a keen that didn't sound entirely human.
> 
> Or, The monster of the week turns it's unwanted attention to Jaskier because Geralt took a hard hit and isn't moving.

"Finally, a town! I've been looking forward to sleeping in an actual  _ bed." _ Jaskier's dragging feet lengthened into a brisk march, the thought of resting his weary body on a mattress rekindling his spark. "Hopefully the people here will be more amenable to parting with their coin, my savings are running low." Geralt replied with an unhelpful grunt, which wasn't really surprising. But, for some reason, the Witcher was especially crabby today. Jaskier has yet to figure out what put his friend in such a dark mood, but he was going to get to the bottom of it, Geralt's defensive threats and glares be damned.

When they entered the shabby-looking town, people's eyes were immediately drawn to Geralt. They took in his hulking mass, piercing golden eyes, and the hint of sharp teeth that peeked out from his parted lips, then proceeded to give the Witcher and his Bard a ridiculously wide berth. The way the townspeople cowered away ruffled Jaskier's feathers, but it was understandable considering the propaganda that was passed around about Witchers.

But Geralt wasn't like that, and Jaskier would bet his _ lute _ that the other Witchers weren't either.

Geralt dismounted Roach, running a sure hand over her flank before handing her reins off to the trembling stable boy. The Witcher watched the jumpy teen lead her away with furrowed brows, which was another thing Jaskier noticed. Geralt had been reluctant to part with Roach as of late, and the sentiment seemed to have extended to the Bard as well for whatever reason. Sometimes Jaskier wondered how much control the Witcher's instincts had, and how much Geralt did. Cause it seemed like an uneven split from where Jaskier stood, and there was  _ plenty _ of evidence to prove it.

One example being a little incident that happened in the town just before this one, Jaskier had gotten a proposal for some fun from one of the waitresses at the Inn they were staying at. But when the two of them tried to relocate upstairs to a room, Geralt had stormed out of literally  _ nowhere. _ One of his hands shot out to clamp down onto Jaskier's shoulder, fingers gripping possessively. It was oddly flattering until the Witcher growled - yes,  _ growled _ \- at the poor lady, who was quick to release the musician's arm and hightail it elsewhere.

Jaskier gave Geralt a firm talking to as the Witcher steered him back to their table, where two hotplates and pints of watered-down ale sat untouched. The Bard  _ might've _ let the subject drop as soon as he sat down and started eating, but could you blame him? He was  _ hungry _ and Geralt had gotten food, it would've been a waste of air to continue the one-sided argument anyway. Jaskier hadn't thought twice about the meal thing - they traded off on who bought the room or food often - until the Witcher purchased the room _ and _ yet another hotplate for the Bard later in the evening when he took a break from entertaining the drunken patrons.

Then he thought about it  _ a lot _ .

"Jaskier?" The musician was unceremoniously pulled back to the present when a hand hesitantly touched his arm, the careful pressure of Geralt's palm retreating when Jaskier turned his attention to the calloused fingers. The Witcher's face was pinched, like he was sucking on a lemon. The Bard smiled at Geralt's silent concern for him, the Witcher tended to show his kinship to the Bard in small ways. Like taking breaks more often during their travels, or setting up camp for the night earlier then Geralt would've liked because Jaskier doesn't have night vision. Or when he lets Jaskier ride Roach when he's injured, whether it was from the monster of the week or just tripping over his own feet.

"Apologies, I got caught up in thinking of song lyrics for that mess of a Bruxa contract. What do you think rhymes with  _ 'man eater?'" _ Geralt hummed in response, his keen eyes following Jaskier when he moved around the Witcher's bulk to head for the Inn. Geralt was right on his heels, like some sort of tetchy shadow that was prone to violence. It seemed news traveled quickly in this town because all eyes were on them the second Jaskier opened the door, the numerous stares more than a little unnerving. He hesitated to enter the Inn, but Geralt didn't have any such qualms. He pressed forward, forcing Jaskier to pass the threshold lest he get bowled over by the impatient Witcher.

Geralt made a beeline for the Innkeeper, who was at the bar scrubbing a cup with a rag while trying not to seem like he was watching the odd pair. The Bard fiddled with the strap of his lute anxiously, hurrying after the Witcher. Geralt seemed to have some sort of sixth sense when it came to Jaskier, because - without looking back, mind you - he slowed his pace so the Bard could catch up. Geralt even allowed the musician to grab his sleeve, which he was thankful for because Jaskier was anything but comfortable with the way these people were looking at them.

"Geralt, I don't like this." He squeaked, his nose smacking against Geralt's back when the Witcher suddenly stopped. The Bard grumbled at the back of Geralt's head, rubbing his throbbing nose with his unoccupied hand. Jaskier leaned around the Witcher's arm to blink at the sweating Innkeeper, who's eyes kept jumping to something behind them. Jaskier's brows furrowed and he turned his head to look, frowning at the older gentleman that was making his way toward the two.

"Uh...Geralt? There's someone coming this way." The Witcher tensed at his panicked warning, stepping closer to the Bard's side while simultaneously glancing back to see who the threat was. Upon seeing the determined crease to the stranger's brow, Geralt swiftly changed their positions, trapping Jaskier between the counter and the Witcher's back, placing himself directly between the Bard and the approaching man. The stranger made the wise choice of stopping a good five feet away from the duo, looking Geralt up and down with a hopeful expression.

"I'd heard there was a Witcher passing through. Looks like fate has decided to answer our prayers." The wary man is visibly relieved by Geralt's presence, which is both wonderful and terrifying because that could only mean one thing. "I have a job for you, but I can only afford to pay you seventy crowns." And there went the other shoe, Jaskier squeezed out from behind Geralt and made himself at home on one of the bar stools. The Witcher prompted his potential client to explain further with a sharp nod, subconsciously shifting closer to Jaskier's seat. The stranger's stiff shoulders slumped, put at ease by the fact that Geralt hadn't immediately told him to scram.

"How many have been killed? Is there a specific area that people are attacked?" Geralt was already stubbornly planted in his information gathering mindset, Jaskier has learned to recognize this as the Witcher accepting a contract. The Bard still had yet to witness Geralt turn down someone in need, which only added more evidence to the growing pile that was his  _ Geralt-Is-A-Big-Softy _ theory. "There's been nine incidents, all the missing folks were..." The stranger's lips pressed into a tight line, glossy eyes shifting to blankly stare at the wall behind the Witcher.

"They were torn apart. The bodies were dragged to the Turner Farmhouse, some kids found them piled up in the barn. Place has been abandoned for twenty five years now, it's said to be haunted." Jaskier's stomach churned at the thought of  _ children _ discovering such a grotesque display, the Innkeeper looked as disquieted by the news as the Bard felt. "Can anyone give me a description of the creature?" Jaskier shot Geralt a look for his lack of tact, which was expertly ignored by the stone-faced Witcher.

"I've seen it. The beast looks like a dog, but it's bigger, around the size of a large pony. Whenever it's near, you can smell rotting flesh and blood. The beast's eyes glow red, it's like nothing I've ever seen before." The old man shivered and Geralt nodded, the feral glint in his golden eyes told Jaskier that he knew which monster currently plagued the town. Geralt dug out a few coins, tossing them onto the counter. The sound of metal clattering against wood broke the tense quiet that'd settled over the Inn and its inhabitants, the old man's face brightening when the Witcher turned his attention to the Innkeeper.

"We're going to need a room, looks like we'll be sticking around for a bit." The owner nodded vigorously, the color returning to his face. "And a hot meal." Jaskier piped in, untying his coin purse. The Bard fingers paused their mission of untangling the string when Geralt's hand swatted at Jaskier's nimble digits, leveling the musician's protesting frown with his  _ 'I got it' _ scowl. "Geralt-" Jaskier tried, but the Witcher swiftly silenced anything else he might've said with a low, rumbling growl.

"Ugh, fine! You're such a brute, I can't believe I put up with you." Most - if not all - the customers and workers that were close enough to hear Jaskier's complaints froze in incredulous fear, clearly, they expected Geralt to retaliate by lobbing off his head or something of that ilk. When all the Bard got in return for his bitching was a disinterested hum, the numerous faces watching the exchange twisted with confusion. Jaskier had to swallow a laugh, word would spread like wildfire that the Bard traveling with the White Wolf had insulted the Witcher and lived.

The patrons were quick to avert their stares when the Witcher's gaze swept over the room, glowering darkly at the unfortunate stragglers who were too slow to look away. When he was content that the townsfolk were no longer ogling them, Geralt situated himself on the stool next to Jaskier's. The old man thanked the profusely until the Innkeeper's return, then went on his way. The owner weaved between tables, holding two steaming plates that was piled with a thick cut of roast beef that was smothered with dark gravy, roasted potatoes and carrots, and a chunk of freshly baked bread.

Jaskier was practically drooling, fidgeting with anticipation as the Innkeeper drew closer. He snatched up his fork and stabbed the prongs into the tender meat seconds after the man put the dish down. The Bard made a truly  _ obscene _ noise when he took his first heavenly bite, winking at the blushing waitress that'd happened to be walking by when he'd moaned. His grin only widened when his eyes flicked to the side, getting a glimpse of Geralt's face. The Witcher looked constipated, the expression had Jaskier disguising the laugh that followed with a cough.

"It's good, isn't it?" He teased, nudging Geralt's side with his elbow. The Witcher grunted his agreement, tearing another bite of meat off the sizable slab he'd been given. He skillfully tossed the lump into his toothy maw with a type of predatory grace that all Witchers probably shared, Geralt noticed his stare and raised a brow as he chewed. Jaskier had already devoured his own beef, the Witcher took notice of this and rolled his eyes. The Bard's head tilted like a perplexed puppy when Geralt tore off a large portion of his meat, realization dawning on Jaskier's face when the Witcher transferred the beef to his empty plate.

"Ooh, thanks." Jaskier takes the out, not wanting to examine the reason for his sudden staring problem. The warm meals are polished off quickly, Geralt passing the Bard something off of his own plate every time Jaskier emptied his. The easy back and forth became a kind of game for the Bard, who scarfed the food down at different speeds, then timed Geralt to see how long it took for the Witcher to notice and give him more. Jaskier told himself that it was an exercise in observation and speed, rather than admitting to himself that it was just to see how closely in tune Geralt was with him.

"I'm stuffed." The Bard sighed in content, leaning back to pat his stomach. Geralt hummed, dragging the last chunk of meat through the leftover gravy until the mouthwatering bite was dripping with it. Jaskier watched Geralt bring the morsel up to his mouth with rapt attention, the musician's hands twitching when Geralt's lips closed around his fingers. Jaskier thought he might just up and  _ die _ when a rivet of dark gravy slipped out to wet Geralt's bottom lip, the Witcher's pink tongue darting out to catch the thick sauce. And fuck, Geralt's messy eating should  _ not _ have been sexy, but here Jaskier was, squirming over some spilled gravy.

Geralt then had the utter  _ audacity _ to stare at him questioningly as he brought his gravy-covered fingers back to his lips, cheeks hollowing out as he sucked them clean. Jaskier's brain kind of short circuits from the overload of all the mental images the action brought to the forefront of his mind. He has to drag his filthy brain out of the gutter - his most vital organ kicking and screaming the whole way - when the Witcher informed him of how long the hunt was probably going to take.

"Wait." Jaskier blurted, stopping Geralt mid-sentence. All previous thoughts of sensual cuddling sessions with the Witcher fading when he registered what Geralt was saying. "There's no way I'm not going, you can't stop me!" He objected, a little too loudly, if the sheer amount of eyes that suddenly turned to them was anything to go by. Geralt's growl rumbled in his chest, eyes darting around before he took Jaskier by his forearm and hauled the Bard all the way to their shared room, away from prying eyes. Jaskier tore the appendage from Geralt's unforgiving grip, giving his aching arm an apologetic rub at the abuse.

"I'm coming with." Jaskier hissed, refusing to back down when Geralt stepped forward, crowding into his personal space in an attempt to intimidate him into submission. Unfortunately for the Witcher, Jaskier had been with Geralt for long enough that he wasn't frightened by the overused tactic.

"You'll be staying here. Your ribs are still damaged, you can't risk puncturing something just because you want to make a catchy song." Geralt fixed Jaskier with a look that  _ dared _ him to argue, and he happily rose to the challenge. The Bard could talk himself in or out of almost anything and he was determined to win this argument. The Witcher must've recognized that the musician wouldn't be backing down easily, because his fists clenched and he leaned into Jaskier's personal bubble.

"You're not going.  _ Period." _

* * *

"So what's the plan? Do we just wait for the...what's it called again?" Jaskier shot Geralt an imploring look and the Witcher's lips peeled back to bare his canines when gold clashed with blue. Geralt's mood had made an abrupt turn for the worst not ten minutes prior, when they were still at the Inn. Jaskier had witnessed the switch, watching as the Witcher's face closed off the moment he realized that the Bard had managed to talk him into letting Jaskier tag along. "Warg." He sneered, eyes stubbornly glued ahead of them. He was brooding, the grip on his sword hilt white-knuckle tight. 

"Ah yes, do we wait for the  _ Warg _ to find us then?" Jaskier tucks his finger under the collar of his patterned jacket, the digit wiggling beneath his tunic to scrape his blunt nail across the coarse bandages that Geralt had changed to fresh ones before begrudgingly leaving the Inn to slay the beast with said Bard hot on his heels. "I mean, its just  _ one _ Warg...right?" The Witcher glanced back at him and Jaskier quickly pulled his hand away from his bandages lest he incur Geralt's wrath, the Witcher was very strict about fiddling with them.

"Despite being pack animals, they don't get along. So it could be just one." Geralt slows to a stop, throwing his unarmed hand out to keep Jaskier behind him. "What is it?" Jaskier whispered, giddy with the idea of writing another epic ballad. He's quickly shushed and, to appease the Bard before he can go on a rant about the rudeness of _ shushing people _ , Geralt points out a black, dog-like shape a few yards ahead of them.

It's back is conveniently turned to the pair, giving Jaskier ample opportunity to sear it's appearance into his mind for the song. The Warg is exactly how the old man described, and it  _ does _ smell quite rancid. Jaskier found it odd that the creature was unmoving, but Geralt didn't look perturbed by it so the Bard decided not to worry over what was probably nothing. "No silver, huh?" Jaskier questioned - being sure to remember that seemingly small detail for the epic tale he was already spinning in his head - as Geralt unsheathes his iron blade.

"No." Geralt agreed stoically. The Witcher was clearly still upset with him, so Jaskier let the harsh tone slide. The Bard stayed right where he was when Geralt began to swiftly and silently prowl towards the beast. Jaskier tilted his head when he caught a glimpse of two dark shapes in the woods on either side of the Witcher. The musician felt bile rising in his throat and he lurched forward a step, lips parting to warn Geralt.

But it was already too late.

Two more Wargs burst forth from the cover of the forest, lunging for the Witcher with bared teeth. Geralt reacted accordingly, twisting to the right to thrust his blade into the first Warg's skull. It went down, taking the Witcher with it, pinning him to the ground with it's dead weight. Jaskier raked his hands through his hair as he watched, torn between following the Witcher's stern instructions to stay put and the overwhelming urge to help.

Geralt thrashed until he could get a hand under the corpse that trapped him, teeth clenched. The Witcher blatantly ignored the two other Wargs circling him, their jaws snapping at Geralt threateningly. Jaskier was too far away to be sure, but it looked like the Witcher was  _ searching _ for something. He must've found it too, because Geralt's started aggressively tugging his arm back in an attempt to free the squished appendage. The musician's eyes nearly bugged out of his head when one of the Wargs stepped on the corpse of it's fallen pack mate, crushing Geralt further into the ground and trapping his hand on his chest.

The Witcher grunted as the massive dog sniffed at his face, his features twisting into a snarl. The Bard watched on in abject horror as the creature opened its maw, slowly leaning in for a bite. Jaskier's head whipped around, looking for something to distract the beast with. He grabbed the first rock he set his eyes on and chucks it at the Warg. The stone hit it's shoulder, Jaskier snatching up another rock just in case the first one didn't do the trick. Fortunately for Geralt, it did. The beast turned in his direction with a malicious show of teeth, but before it could move even an _ inch _ in his direction, the Witcher's bloody sword was thrust up under the Warg's jaw.

Geralt had used Jaskier's brief distraction to free one of his arms, ripping his blade from the Warg's corpse. The second falls onto the first and Jaskier winced at how heavy that had to be for Geralt. But the Witcher takes it all in stride, yanking his other hand out from under the bloody mess. Jaskier squints at the bottle that's clenched in the Witcher's fist, Geralt's thumb pressing against the cork in an attempt to open it one-handed. He doesn't get the time he so desperately needs to open the vial because a third Warg comes up behind him and, biting down onto his shoulder, drags him out from under the bodies of the two others.

Geralt roars in frustration when the pressure on his shoulder and arm forces him to drop the potion to the ground, leaving it behind as he's violently hauled away. In his fury, Geralt lifted his arms to the grab Warg's face and jam his thumbs into the beast's eye sockets. The Warg let out a piercing cry when the soft spheres pop under the unrelenting pressure, white and red liquid leaking down Geralt's hands as he's released. As soon as he was freed, he scrambles to his feet and sprints back to the bodies for the potion he'd dropped. Jaskier has no idea what it was, but it must have been important for Geralt to be all-but  _ feral _ to get to it.

Jaskier had never felt more useless in his life as a fourth - yes a _ fourth - _ Warg erupts from the forest right in front of the Witcher as Geralt was sliding for the bottle innocently lying in the grass. The Witcher didn't have time to stop or change direction, it's jaws snapped shut around his head and Geralt's hands jerked up to grab at the creature's muzzle. With a triumphant growl, the Warg violently shook its head. The Witcher's arms convulsed and dropped, hanging limply at his sides.

Jaskier's jaw dropped in utter  _ disbelief _ . Was he...? No. He  _ couldn't _ be. The Warg wrenched it's head to the left and loosened it's hold on Geralt's skull, the Witcher's body slamming against a tree before crumpling to the ground lifelessly. Jaskier can feel the blood drain from his face when yet  _ another _ Warg emerges from the woods, stalking closer to the fallen Witcher. Thankfully, the beast who managed to catch Geralt off-guard didn't feel like sharing and they began to fight viciously.

And the Witcher  _ still _ wasn't moving.

"Ger-" Before his vocals could fully form his friend's name, something large and heavy barreled into him from behind. His teeth slam down on his tongue with such force that the sharp tang of iron fills his mouth, and he unceremoniously finds himself pressed into the ground by two massive paws. The pain is excruciating, and he can feel something in his chest give with a sharp crack. His jaw dropped open, vocal cords releasing a keen that didn't sound entirely human.

He felt warm breath on the back of his neck and had to swallow down a sob when the pinprick of teeth followed. Through his blurry vision, he stared across the field, searching out Geralt's still form, Jaskier wanted the Witcher to be the last thing he saw before he was killed. The Warg stepped down onto his upper back and heat bloomed from the area, quickly morphing into a burning agony. A scream tore from his lungs when his ribs shifted unnaturally and Jaskier could've _ sworn _ that Geralt twitched, but that couldn't be. He mentally scolded himself, it was probably just his desperate mind trying to find a way to make his imminent death a little less horrifying.

His cries of pain appeared to have excited the beast, because it began to push down onto his ribcage even harder, making Jaskier's vision white out. It was a little blurry from then on, but when he managed to pry his eyes open, he noticed distinct the lack of a certain Witcher's body on the ground. Jaskier sincerely hoped that he hadn't been devoured, he was sure he was next anyways. The second time he dragged his eyes open, it seemed as if he lost more time than he'd thought. His brow scrunched in confusion when his gaze focused on a white beast,  _ Geralt _ .

He was in his wolf form.

The raging Witcher was tearing through the three remaining Wargs, the dog that'd went after Jaskier had apparently lost interest in the broken and had joined it's siblings in attacking the Witcher. The next time he opened his eyes he was being carried by two, very  _ human _ , arms. He felt the warm, bare skin of the Witcher's chest and figured that the man had shifted back already. He groggily craned his neck to look around Geralt's tensed bicep and his breath caught in his throat upon seeing the absolute  _ mess _ that was left in the clearing.

Red.

The thick, crimson liquid seemed to be splashed over every single inch of space, connecting the piles of gore that were scattered around the grassy field. If Jaskier hadn't seen the Wargs beforehand, he wouldn't have known what the wet chunks were originally. Ignoring the little voice in the back of his head that insisted he should be disgusted, the Bard groggily succumbs to the darkness once again when the trees block what remained of mangled corpses from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be on the lookout for the next Chapter, it's a fluffy one...mostly.


	5. Cold Hands (Warm Heart)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mandatory cuddling for warmth fic.

_ "Geralt," _ Jaskier drew out the Witcher's name in misery, his breaths fogging in the air with every exhale. "I'm going to freeze to death, when will we reach the next town?" The Bard's teeth chattered, arms wrapped around himself in an attempt to keep his core warm. Geralt looked as inconvenienced by the weather as he usually was, which - to be perfectly honest - wasn't at all. His breaths didn't cloud and his body was statue still atop Roach's back, it was  _ ridiculously _ unfair.

Each rattle that shot down Jaskier's spine had his chest throbbing, his healing ribs protesting against the involuntary shivering. They have been mending quite well thanks to the attentive Witcher, the delicious raspberry medicine Geralt had been giving him with dinner helped too. Just yesterday, the Witcher had given the all good to stop wearing the constricting bandages that kept his cracked ribs stable. The Witcher had told him that he'd have to take it easy for another few days or so, then Jaskier would be free to prance around and get himself into trouble once again.

"By tomorrow evening at the latest." Geralt grunted and Jaskier made a lamenting noise, the distressed sound prompting the Witcher to glance back at the Bard. Jaskier didn't want to spend another night out in the cold, and he said as much. "Geralt, I can't wait that long. I'll  _ die!" _ The Witcher's cloaked shoulders tensed and the musician winced, he knew his words were cruel. There wasn't much Geralt could do about the distance they had to cover, but the bastard could at least show a  _ shred _ of mercy-

Something heavy and  _ warm _ smacked his face and Jaskier flailed with a muffled yelp, his hands reaching up to claw at the rough fabric that smothered him. He pulled it off his head and blinked down at the familiar item he now cradled in his arms, it was  _ Geralt's cloak _ . The Witcher had given him his only barrier against the biting wind, and even had the gall to looked unbothered by the sudden assault of cold he must  _ surely _ be experiencing.

"I-uh...thank you." Jaskier stammered, quickly shrugging into the cloth. Geralt's heat still lingered in the thick wool, along with his scent of bonfire smoke, leather, and iron. The Bard pulled the hood up and breathed in, smiling to himself as he hurried to catch up with Roach and her rider. "Careful Geralt, I might start to think we're friends." Jaskier teased, laughing when the Witcher leveled him with a flat, unimpressed glare. His ribs smarted, but the Bard's cheerful mood had been brought back with a vengeance, the cloak protecting him from the worst of the awful weather.

"You know, most nobles I meet and play for are confused by the fact that a wine can be 'tart ' in flavor. I always have to explain that sharp, acidic wines are classified as such, and then proceed to inform the neanderthals that the wine might have been made with unripe fruit. One can detect this by a 'mouth watering' sensation-oh!" Jaskier had been so caught up in his chatter that he failed to notice a patch of snow-covered ice until it was too late, his foot slipped out from under him and he landed on his back with a breathless gasp of pain.

One second, Jaskier is wheezing up at the cloudy sky; and the next, Geralt's face is incredibly close to his. The Witcher looked panicked, his mouth set in a tight line. The Bard couldn't breathe, and he tries to relay this alarming development to Geralt. It doesn't quite work out, his words coming out as a mangled whine. Geralt's brows are furrowed, his eyes darting back and forth as he listens for something. The edges of Jaskier's vision gray from lack if air, fear surging up his throat as the darkness creeps in, threatening to swallow him whole.

"Ge-" He pleads, his hands weakly grasping at Geralt's shoulders. The Witcher appeared to have finally found what he was listening for, because his golden eyes meet Jaskier's frightened cornflower blue pools. "You're ribs are fine. Just had the wind knocked out of you." Geralt grabbed one of the Bard's flailing arms, curling his fingers around Jaskier's hand, dwarfing it with his own. The Witcher guides Jaskier's palm up to his chest, pressing the Bard's hand against the slow, languid thump of the Witcher's abnormal heart.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, you just need to calm down." Geralt's voice was a soothing baritone, rolling over him like an ocean tide. Jaskier obediently turned his focus away from the tightness in his chest, shifting his attention to the hand that the Witcher held between his firm pectorals. The Bard's gaze fixed onto each rise and fall of that wet-dream-worthy chest, his hiccuping gasps slowly but surely slowing down to match Geralt's rhythm.

It takes a good few minutes, but Jaskier does eventually wrangle his breathing into something resembling normal. And, with the Bard significantly more calm, Geralt shifted back. Jaskier had to swallow a noise of protest as the furnace of a man pulls away, allowing the cold to seep back into the space Geralt had previously occupied. The musician trembled and clutched the heavy, dark cloak closer to his body, trying to hold on to some of the warmth left there by the Witcher.

"Come on." It took Jaskier a minute to come out of his pity-party and realize that Geralt was holding a hand out for him to take. He extended his own shivering appendage out to the Witcher, missing on the first pass and making his handsome face pull down into a concerned scowl. Thankfully, the Witcher showed some mercy on the freezing human, leaning down to curl his warm fingers around the Bard's hand. Jaskier's alarmingly pale digits wrapped around Geralt's wrist with a worrying lack of strength, the Witcher easily hauling the trembling musician to his unsteady feet.

Jaskier is too tired to put up much fight when Geralt clamps his nearly scalding hands down onto the Bard's quaking shoulders and guided him toward Roach, surprising the musician by  _ encouraging _ Jaskier to use the mare to keep his shuddering body upright. Geralt's eyes sear into him for a long moment that's broken when Roach nickers and stamps her hoof, Jaskier levels the steed with a betrayed frown after the Witcher swiftly turned away. Geralt marched into the snow-covered forest without another word, probably looking for a safe place to stop for the night.

Now left alone with the unpredictable mare, Jaskier decides to keep his annoying tendencies to a minimum; his resolve to do so crumbling after a measly two minutes of silence. The Bard shifted his weight, pushing off Roach in preparation to go find out what was taking Geralt so long. He was stopped when his cloak abruptly pulled taut, choking him for a terrifying second before he remembered himself and took a step back to ease the pressure.

Jaskier twisted, a bark of slightly-hysterical laughter bursting from his vocal cords when he was met with the  _ comical _ sight of Roach with the black fabric bunched in her mouth. She responded with a truly deprecating snort, nibbling the coarse cloth gently. Jaskier grabbed two fistfuls of the cloak and gave a firm yank, scowling when Roach didn't immediately release the fabric. The Bard's frustrated pulling turned into a full on tug-of-war when Roach's toothy grip on Geralt's cloak became iron-clad. It must have looked downright hilarious, a Popsicle of a Bard struggling with a horse over a piece of fabric. 

And even worse, Roach was currently winning.

Jaskier startled, losing his grip when a thick, familiar hand dropped down onto his right shoulder and squeezed. The Bard flailed his arms out when his balance wavered, squawking when his knees buckled. He collapsed backward, into Geralt. The Witcher easily caught and steadied him thanks to his superior strength and Jaskier decided he wanted to get a look at his savior. It was a bit awkward and took a no small amount of contortion on his part, but he managed. The top of Jaskier's head dug into the valley between the Witcher's pectorals as he bowed his back and craned his neck to look at the bottom of a familiar square jawline.

"Well, h-hello there." The Bard greeted, teeth clattering together. Geralt graces him with a fond roll of his golden eyes, carefully leading Jaskier back to Roach's side. The Witcher's hands splayed over his hips and the Bard felt his face heat up, the mare huffs judgmentally and Jaskier narrows his eyes at the horse before childishly sticking his tongue out since Geralt wouldn't be able to see the petty action.

He'd like to see anyone else in  _ his _ situation keep a straight face with the Witcher's hands placed on  _ them _ . He managed to silence a squeak when he was unceremoniously picked up, like he weighed nothing, and placed onto Roach's leather saddle. She shifts a bit to test his weight, probably trying to find out the best way to both buck him off and shatter what little was left of his fragile dignity. Thankfully, the hellish mare settled when Geralt stroked his palm over her neck in a soothing way.

The Witcher observed him with a critical eye, making certain that Jaskier wouldn't slip off the saddle before taking the reins to lead the pair off the road and into the woods. The minutes blur together and they arrive at the small clearing Geralt found between what felt like one blink and the next to the jittery musician. His eyelids are growing heavy, and he slumps forward a bit to ease the taxing activity of keeping himself upright. Jaskier mumbles when Geralt's hands return to his waist, pulling the Bard off Roach's back and onto solid ground. 

Geralt kept glancing at Jaskier as he digs through the saddle bag, unpacking the musician's meager belongings. The Bard smothers a yawn into his fist as the Witcher unties and shakes out Jaskier's bedroll, situating it onto the frozen ground before going back to Roach and digging out an armful of furs. He arranges two of them onto the bedroll before marching over to the Bard to herd him to the cozy swathe of furs.

Jaskier flopped down without much need for verbal or physical prompting, pressing his lips together to hide his amusement when Geralt started fussing with the remaining three blankets. The Witcher tucks them in around the Bard's slim figure, sniffing and huffing to himself as he goes. Geralt's at it for so long, that by the time the Witcher finally realized what exactly he was doing, Jaskier had already drifted into a half-awake state of utter calm. The musician hummed questioningly when Geralt growled and jerked to his feet before turning on his heel to grumpily stomp out of camp.

The Bard tries very hard to stay awake now that Geralt has left, it wouldn't do to nod off and wake up to a group of bandits. With the state that he's in, he'd hold the Witcher back if these hypothetical thieves were to take him as a hostage. Hence, his current battle against sleep. Jaskier shivered and frowned, even wrapped up like he was, he still couldn't seem to stop. With Geralt otherwise occupied, Jaskier allowed himself to freely wallow in misery, snuggling down further into the meager warmth the blankets surrounding him provided.

"D-Damn this blasted w-weather!" Jaskier spluttered, huffing shaky breaths onto his cold hands in a vain attempt to chase the numbness away. Wooden logs clattered into a pile on the ground not far from his person, startling the Bard into looking up. He blinks sluggishly, wondering how much time had passed. He'd ask Geralt, but the Witcher was busy digging. He did so with his bare hands, Jaskier shuddered just thinking about how cold that had to be.

It had stopped snowing sometime between when Geralt left, and when he came back. It was slightly worrying that he hadn't noticed, because he'd been awake the whole time...right? Jaskier's throat clicks dryly when he swallows, apprehensive of how fast he was deteriorating due to the cold. As if feeling his stare, Geralt looks up and around, his steely amber eyes land upon Jaskier's - no doubt - pitiful form. The Bard managed a small smile in greeting and thought he saw the Witcher's gaze soften. He's further confused when Geralt addressed him with a courtesy once-over, the furrow between his brows deepening at whatever he saw.

"I thought you had fallen asleep." He admitted, looking unsettled. Which was a massive red flag, Geralt was a  _ Witcher _ . He could hear Jaskier's breathing, his  _ heartbeat _ , and the man thought the Bard had been  _ sleeping _ . The musician's heart would have to be beating at an absurdly slow pace in order to unintentionally trick Geralt. The Bard sniffled and wrestled a hand out of his cozy mound to rub at his numb nose. Jaskier's brows shot up to his hairline when the Witcher's eyes widened in alarm, gaze frozen on the musician's free appendage. Faster than he could track, Geralt was in front of him, carefully snatching the offending limb from the Bard's face.

It was then that Jaskier was forced to look,  _ really look _ at his hands. The breath stalled in his throat as his brain processed the gruesome sight before him; his fingers were a light purple, the tips a bit darker than the rest of the digit. The palm of his hand was a bright red and Jaskier knew that the longer it stayed cold, the more the color would deepen. His gaze shot up when Geralt cursed, watching numbly as the Witcher dropped his hand back to the blanket before standing in a flurry of movement.

Jaskier was distantly aware that he must've been in shock; but, considering that he was in danger of losing his entire livelihood, he gave himself a break. Instead of going down that dark path, Jaskier instead focused his attention on Geralt. The Witcher was putting together a tepee of wood in the fire pit, breaking apart the longer branches with his bare hands, wooden splinters flying through the air at the rough treatment. Jaskier pressed his lips into a tight line at Geralt's angry movements, he knew that the Witcher was probably finding ways to blame the Bard's predicament on himself.

Geralt hadn't the faintest clue about human bodies and how they reacted to anything the Witcher couldn't just cut down with a sword, illness and frostbite were foreign concepts to Geralt and Jaskier was fully aware of this. The Bard was dragged out of his musings when the pile of sticks suddenly roared with bright flames, but he couldn't recall having seen the Witcher move away from the makeshift fire pit to the saddlebags where the fire-starting supplies were. Which meant that Geralt was rattled enough to cast Igni instead of taking the time to bring the flames to life the usual way, that wasn't a good sign.

Jaskier bit his lip, perhaps his condition was worse then he first feared. At least he'd finally stopped shivering, he was quite warm now that he thought about it. "I think the danger has passed my dear Witcher, my atrocious trembling has finally ceased-oh bother." The Bard swallowed thickly when Geralt whirled. "That's...not a good thing, is it?" Geralt's tight expression told him all he needed to know, making dread settle heavy in his stomach. The Witcher was eerily still for a few moments before he burst into a flurry of movement, tearing out of his armor in record time.

"I'm too cold." Geralt grunted absentmindedly, like that was a perfectly  _ sound _ reason to be stripping himself bare in this damned weather. Jaskier's mouth flapped open and closed like a dying fish for a few moments, his wide, panicked eyes pinned on the pale flesh that was being revealed to him one clasp at a time. The Witcher dropped the last of his armor onto the ground, his shirt following moments later. Geralt then proceeded to kick off his tight leather pants like they'd personally offend him before stomping through a good few inches of snow - his blasted feet barren of boots or socks - to the saddlebags.

He threw one open and Jaskier heard the soft chime of shifting glass bottles from inside before the Witcher's searching hand withdrew from the pouch with that strange murky white vial clasped in the tight curl of his fingers. The Bard's brain jumped back into gear when Geralt pulled the cork off and lifted the bottle like he was going to drink it, Jaskier's trembling hand shot out on it's own accord to catch the Witcher's elbow. Geralt paused, head tipped back and arm raised. His golden gaze shifted to the musician, a question swirling in their molten depths.

"How, pray tell, does that werewolf potion have anything to do with you being cold?" Jaskier croaked, confused and more aroused then he had any right to be. The Bard cleared his throat, hoping that Geralt would mistake his embarrassed flush for the chill. "It makes my internal temperature rise. I'll be able to warm you up without risking your health further." The Witcher huffed, like he found Jaskier to be particularly dimwitted for not immediately understanding.

He shook off Jaskier's touch and downed the milky liquid like one would finish off a putrid tankard of ale, carelessly tossing the empty bottle back into the leather pouch he had dug it out of. The shift looked as excruciating as it probably felt, but Geralt bore the reshaping of bones and stretching of skin with gritted teeth. Mere seconds after the last nauseating crack, the white wolf was shoving his wet nose against Jaskier's uncovered skin to bully him into moving into the position Geralt wanted.

The Bard begrudgingly ended up in a fetal position, facing the Witcher's fur covered neck and chest. The rest of the wolf's massive form was protectively curled around the musician's significantly smaller body, which was still very much swaddled in thick blankets, to bracket him into the circle of warmth provided - and boy was it warm - the heat came off the Witcher in waves, sending pins and needles down Jaskier's extremities. It wasn't a very pleasant sensation, bordering on painful.

"Uh, Geralt..." The musician squirmed uncomfortably, waiting for some sort of response. The Witcher finally huffed after a full minute or two of struggling on Jaskier's part, snapping his teeth at the Bard's wriggling shoulders in a silent demand for him to cease his pitiful attempts to escape. The musician managed to obey his command, for about three seconds.  _ "Geralt." _ Jaskier insisted, shoving at the brute's heavy maw. The wolf resisted the weak pushing, acknowledging the whining Bard with an exasperated scowl.

"It's warm." That thoughtless, half-delirious comment had earned the musician a look of bewilderment, as if the Witcher were questioning his competence, intelligence and sanity all at once. Which was a feat as a  _ wolf _ , mind you. Jaskier would have been impressed at Geralt's expressiveness if he weren't so busy being offended. "Well-I-you...fuck." Jaskier stumbled over his words the longer that piercing gaze was on him. "I will have you know, it's a perfectly reasonable thing to point out." He pouted when Geralt showed no sign of forgiving his thoughtless slip of the tongue, resigning himself to a long night with a suffering sigh.

Jaskier wasn't sure when exactly it had happened, but - soon enough - the heat surrounding him became blissful. The Bard's eyelashes fluttered and went half-lidded as sleep gently pulled at his consciousness, his mouth curling up into a content smile. He felt more than heard Geralt's barely-there hitch of breath and lazily rolled his heavy head to stare straight into black, bottomless pools. Jaskier's head tilted slightly to the left in question and the wolf huffed before settling again, ignoring the prodding fingers at his fuzzy shoulder blade. When the musician realized he wasn't going to get a satisfactory response, his bothersome poking abated. He opted to snuggle into the cocoon of warmth and safety Geralt exuded instead, bidding the Witcher a muffled  _ 'goodnight.' _

It wasn't hard to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, this one turned out pretty short considering the truly absurd amount of time it took to write, I was struggling with how to end it this entire week. I just finished the damn thing this morning after pulling an all-nighter. Ugh...I need a nap.


	6. Agathokakological: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Must we stop here?" Jaskier got a noncommittal hum in response to his desperate inquiry, Geralt didn't so much as blink at the less-then-warm welcome they were met with. Most of the civilians they passed leveled the Witcher with a disgusted sneer and spat at Roach's clomping hooves, which Geralt professionally ignored.The Witcher seemed more annoyed by the loathing glares the townsfolk shot at the Bard than anything they threw Geralt's way, his form tensing in preparation to attack whenever a bitter villager passed too close to Jaskier for the Witcher's comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super sorry for the incredibly long wait! This chapter really did NOT want to be written, I was slaving over this for months! In all honesty though, my Twin wrote like...90% of this, the remaining 10% was me editing and tweaking her work. I'd crash and burn without her, lol.

Geralt watched as Jaskier slept, unable to sleep himself. Unsurprisingly, the man happened to be just as active unconscious as he was awake. The Bard shifted every so often and sometimes mumbled nonsense in his slumber, Geralt had learned over time that the musician was actually a heavy sleeper when opportunity arose. The Witcher had been shocked to learn that Jaskier didn't usually get a full night's rest before traveling with him, the Bard had claimed it was because he didn't feel comfortable letting his guard down around certain people or places.

Now though, Jaskier slept like a brick and was slow to wake, something that was as endearing as it was frustrating and counterproductive, but that didn't stop Geralt from encouraging the behavior. It was an experience learning that Jaskier was actually not a morning person, contrary to what his bubbly personality might have suggested. Only two things could get the man out of bed before he was ready to get up, food or brute force. Geralt usually took the latter route, but would occasionally indulge the musician's other option.

Geralt silently observed Jaskier's sleeping form. Now that the man was still, it was easier to get a clear look at the Bard's features. He had a pleasant face, dominated by soft, feminine features. His contours gently rounded out by the highlight of the dying fire that he was sprawled out in front of. Moments like this reminded Geralt of what it felt like to have that body cuddled up next to him, lax with trust and comfortable warmth. That day had been a rough one, the cold seeping into bone, making it seem impossible to ever feel warm again.

Jaskier drew danger to himself like a moth to a flame, bringing in all sorts of trouble that Geralt never had to worry about until the musician pranced into his life.

Eventually, the sun began to peek over the canopy of trees, the soft golden rays slowly lighting up the clearing. When Geralt no longer had the excuse of darkness to loiter about, he got up off the bedroll with a soft grunt and started their morning routine. There was a town only a few hours off and the Witcher was certain that they could make it there by mid-day if he timed it right, but that would require Jaskier's cooperation. Geralt decided to get breakfast started, if only to help sway the Bard into tolerating a faster paced day with minimal complaints.

He dug out the last of their bread and dried meat, frowning at the meager breakfast for a moment before deciding to go collect some berries as well. He was meticulous about which ones he chose from the bush, telling himself that it was because he didn't want to give Jaskier something to bitch about the entire way to the town. When he had a sufficient meal scrounged up and the sun high in the sky, Geralt woke the Bard by ripping his blankets away, causing his comfortable bubble of heat to be lost to the morning chill, and nudged him with his boot. Not enough to cause unnecessary pain, but just enough to cause mild discomfort, forcing the musician into consciousness.

Jaskier complied with an obnoxiously loud groan of protest, cornflower blue eyes peeking open. The Bard's nose scrunched as he stretched, joints cracking and popping. Geralt waited patiently until he was finished with his dramatic display, before shoving the cloth filled with his breakfast at him. Jaskier made a happy noise at the offered food before digging in with gusto, humming a random tune as he inhaled the meal. Geralt took his free time to begin packing up camp, taking both their bedrolls, ignoring Jaskier's muffled shout of 'Hey!' when the Witcher yanked his out from under him. The Witcher finished the process by scattering the remainder of the fire pit and turned back to the Bard, unsurprised to find the cloth empty of even a crumb and the man lounging on the ground with his eyes closed.

"If I didn't know any better, I would guess that you're trying to sway my favor with all this." Jaskier's voice was light with mirth as he gestured vaguely around himself, the Witcher just hummed in response. The Bard was right of course, but Jaskier didn't need to know that. The other man took Geralt's vague answer as his cue to continue. "But alas, I do. So...what's going on?" Jaskier rolled and popped up onto his feet, bringing his arms above his head in a stretch. Seeing as his jacket wasn't yet done up, his shirt rose to reveal a sliver of soft pale skin. The Witcher tore his eyes away, a scowl furrowing his brow as he climbed atop Roach and guided her back toward the road.

"Oh, we're moving already." It was less of a question and more of an observation, but Geralt wasn't fooled, he knew that Jaskier was someone who made a frequent and annoying habit of stating the obvious. The Witcher glanced at the Bard, who had pulled his lute in front of himself and began to pluck absentmindedly at the strings. "Where are we off to?" The musician's head tilted endearingly, strands of soft brown hair sweeping over curious cornflower blue eyes. The breeze ruffled Jaskier's shiny locks, bringing with it the familiar scent of sweet honey, spruce, and rain.

"There's a town a couple hours away. We should arrive after noon."

*** * ***

"Must we stop here?" Jaskier got a noncommittal hum in response to his desperate inquiry, Geralt didn't so much as blink at the less-then-warm welcome they were met with. Most of the civilians they passed leveled the Witcher with a disgusted sneer and spat at Roach's clomping hooves, which Geralt professionally ignored. The Witcher seemed more annoyed by the loathing glares the townsfolk shot at the Bard than anything they threw Geralt's way, his form tensing in preparation to attack whenever a bitter villager passed too close to Jaskier for the Witcher's comfort.

Lately, the musician had found that Geralt's protective streak made something warm bloom in his chest, filling Jaskier to the brim with an almost overwhelming sense of safety. He kept that unnamed emotion under wraps, certain that if the Witcher knew of his...little  _ infatuation _ , Geralt would slam his cold, aloof mask back into place and their tentatively-built friendship would crumble to rubble. The Bard shook his head, tucking those darker thoughts away to brood over at a more convenient time. Instead, he turned his focus back to his surroundings, keeping his eyes peeled for any posting about a contract. Unfortunately, he came up empty handed.

"I'm not seeing anything in your area of expertise, big guy." Jaskier picked at the dirt underneath his nails as Geralt dismounted Roach, leading the hellish mare into the stables to settle her in one of the empty stalls. The Bard knew the Witcher wouldn't begin the painstaking process of unsaddling her yet, he always waited until he knew they had lodging to unpack their supplies. Jaskier shifted from foot-to-foot, debating whether or not to head into the Inn without the Witcher. And while he could probably talk the owner into giving them a room if he went alone, he wasn't blind to the malicious looks he himself had been receiving from the residents.

"There's something here." Jaskier jumped at the sound of the Witcher's rough voice, he hadn't expected Geralt to respond. In his surprise, he tripped over a bucket that had been inconveniently abandoned on the ground next to his feet. The Bard flailed with a distressed squeak, careening into the Witcher's armored back. The musician threw out his hands to brace himself, his troublesome appendages latching onto Geralt's broad shoulder and narrow hip. The Witcher grunted irritably, but stayed as immovable as stone under the sudden onslaught of Jaskier's full weight.

"Shit, sorry. Terribly sorry. Just give me a moment..." Jaskier rambled, attempting to shake the wooden bucket off his foot while simultaneously trying to push away from Geralt. Which ended up being the wrong decision, seeing as it just made the bad situation he found himself in worse. The musician's grip on the Witcher's hip slipped and his hand ran down the length of the Geralt's leg until Jaskier caught himself by tightening his grip on the meat of the Witcher's impressive leather-clad thigh. The Bard's chest was now pressed flushed against Geralt's lower back, his face squished between the Witcher's shoulder blades.

Seemingly fed-up with the musician's unfortunate struggle, the Witcher shook Jaskier off and whirled around to face the spluttering Bard, swiftly stooping to his knees without so much as a warning. All Jaskier could manage to do was stare at the top of the Witcher's head in stunned silence, the Bard fighting the sudden - not to mention  _ suicidal _ \- impulse to tangle his fingers into Geralt's alluring white locks. 

So he made the  _ wise _ decision of bracing his hands on the Witcher's broad shoulders to both steady his wobbly form, and to keep the nettlesome things occupied. Without further ado, Geralt engulfed the musician's knee in a firm but unusually gentle grip and lifted the leg that was trapped in the bucket. The Witcher proceeded to carefully tug the Bard's foot free, placing the offending object off to the side before pushing back to his feet to raise a brow at Jaskier's flushed face as soon as the task was completed.

"Well, it's not like I  _ planned _ for that to happen." The Bard huffed, pouting at Geralt's deadpan expression. They both just stared at each other for a moment before Jaskier broke the quiet that had descended, quite suddenly dissolving into a roaring fit of laughter. "A _ bucket _ , Geralt. Oh my god, the _ embarrassment _ . Thankfully, my dear Witcher, you were the only witness to that utterly humiliating display." Geralt's mouth quirked up every so slightly, the almost-smile gone as quickly as it had appeared. Still, something in Jaskier thrilled at being able to coax such a soft, fond expression from the fierce Witcher.

Geralt turned back to Roach, giving her one last friendly pat on the neck before moving away to trudge out of the stables. The Bard scrambled after the Witcher, following him to the adjacent Inn. Geralt entered first, nonchalant despite all the negative attention they'd been gathering. The customers within quieted their chatter, openly staring at the two travelers. The Bard winced, it seems that their appearance had effectively sucked the rowdy, comfortable atmosphere right out of the establishment. Jaskier warily followed Geralt's lead, hot on the Witcher's heels as he marched over to the bar. Geralt appeared to be accustomed to the suffocating tension that hovered in the air like thick fog, leading the musician to believe that this was the typical reaction to a Witcher's intimidating presence.

The barkeep spat at Geralt's feet, forcing the Witcher to stop his approach a couple feet away from the counter. The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees when Geralt met the man's spiteful gaze with a stony intensity. The Witcher's face was uncharacteristically vacant, empty and cold enough to freeze a raging forest fire. Goosebumps broke out on the Bard's arms, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. This was a side of the Witcher that Jaskier hadn't seen before, but it was still  _ Geralt _ .

"We require a room. Two beds." Jaskier stepped out from behind the intimidating form of the Witcher and positioned himself slightly in front of Geralt, but not too far away that the Witcher couldn't grab him. The Bard kept half his attention on his friend's body language, which was very telling despite the Witcher's current impassive stare. The barkeep crossed his arms, narrowed gaze darting between the two of them before he grumpily snatched one of the many tags that were hung up on numbered hooks and tossed it at them with a mutter of something Jaskier couldn't quite catch. Though, it appeared that Geralt had, if the defensive coiling of his body was any indication.

"Thank you, kind sir." Jaskier's smile was stiff, but could you blame him? He whole-heartedly doubted that any other fellow would be able to keep up a friendly attitude in the face of such overwhelming hostility, but the Bard had endured worse than a handful of disdain-filled glares. Jaskier handed the key off to Geralt in a silent prompt to lead the way, and with one last glare at the barkeep, the Witcher did just that. The musician diligently kept a sharp eye on a few of the more aggressive-looking patrons that were sporadically seated at the various tables around the room, he wouldn't want any of them to get any ideas about hurling any potentially dangerous objects at their turned backs.

To Jaskier's pleasant surprise, Geralt slowed his aggressive march to a halt at the base of the steps, twisting around to make sure that the Bard was still following. The Witcher reached out to gently rest his hand on the musician's lower back, his bright, molten eyes flicked over Jaskier's shoulder as he guided the elated Bard to walk in front of him. The musician glanced back at Geralt's scowling face and smiled brightly, drawing the Witcher's distrustful eyes to his jubilant grin. Upon seeing Jaskier's fond expression, his own hardened features softened the slightest bit.

Geralt loosened his clenched fists, offering the key that'd been strangled in his tight grip to the Bard. Jaskier took it without a moment's hesitation, the musician's cornflower blue eyes glancing down at the worn room number for a brief second before he was off, leading them further down the dimly lit hall. When they arrived at the corresponding door, Jaskier swiftly unlocked it with a graceful twist of his wrist. The Bard pulled the key from the lock, tucking it into his pocket as he stepped in. He lifted his head to take in the room and paused, there was only one bed. 

Geralt lingered in the doorway, his keen gaze tracking the puzzled musician's aimless meandering through the available space. Jaskier paused next to the lone bed, his face thoughtful, but not particularly distressed by the fact that they'd probably end up sharing. It was a fairly normal occurrence, except for the very rare occasion where Jaskier would disappear for the night with company. The Bard had learned the hard way that Geralt wasn't fond of those instances when the Witcher tracked him to the house of a particularly well-off lad one faithful evening. 

Geralt had unceremoniously kicked the door in and stormed up the steps to barge in on him and his very obviously  _ male _ partner in the middle of doing the deed. The Witcher hadn't even given Jaskier's bed-mate the time of day, just grabbed the back of the poor man's neck and tossed him away from where he'd plastered himself against the Bard's sweat-slick back. Geralt then proceeded to usher the musician out of the bed and stood guard as Jaskier donned his rumpled clothes. The man had regained his bearings and was shouting abuse at Geralt by the time the musician had done up his breeches, more than a little dazed at the abrupt turn of events.

In the end, Jaskier had bitched and moaned the whole way back to the Inn that they'd been staying at, but the Witcher remained extremely tight-lipped about the whole incident, refusing to explain why he'd cock-blocked the Bard. He'd reasoned that the Witcher didn't want them to get run out of another town because of Jaskier's sexual escapades, but that had felt like an excuse. Because - if he was being perfectly honest - the musician hadn't the faintest clue as to the  _ why _ , and he didn't want to read into the situation too much and set himself up for hurt.

Jaskier was pulled back to the present when Geralt's broad shoulder knocked into his, the Witcher marching over to the small table that was positioned beside the bed. Geralt peered down at it, considering the furniture's sturdiness for a few moments before resolutely shrugging off his bag of potions, the numerous bottles inside softly clinking against one another when he set it down. They were - arguably - the most valuable thing Geralt carried, and the Bard had found that the Witcher liked to keep the satchel containing the secret concoctions on his person, or in eyesight at all times. 

Jaskier ripped his appreciative gaze away from Geralt's turned back, the Witcher rifling through his bag to count his stash of potions. Geralt took inventory of the various glass vials like it was a religion, obsessively aware of precisely how many he had at any given time. Jaskier had taken to testing him by sneakily swiping a bottle or two just to see if the Witcher would notice, he did and would immediately glare at the Bard until he shamelessly coughed them up.

The musician's gaze returned to the bed, the sight of the furniture reminding him of the mystery at hand. Sure,  _ maybe _ this was the only room that was left, but Jaskier had specifically asked for  _ two _ beds. And that insinuated that the Innkeeper had given them a single for a  _ reason _ , and probably not one that the Bard would particularly like either. Jaskier frowned at the implications, but there was an easy way for him to confirm his suspicions.

"The Innkeeper. He said something under his breath." Geralt paused for a moment, as if caught off guard by the Bard's statement. "What was it?" Jaskier narrowed his eyes as the Witcher's stiff shoulders, Geralt was clearly debating whether or not to be truthful with his reply. Finally, the Witcher twisted around to face him, the withdrawn expression he wore had Jaskier's stomach tying itself into uncertain knots. "He called you a whore, a monsterfucker." The musician balked at the vulgar term, a mixture of mortification and fury making his face heat.

"You're not - but we haven't - I'm not - Do you..." Jaskier spluttered, his tongue unwilling to properly form the questions his mind flipped through for fear of Geralt's answer. The Bard instead opted for the easy out, raising his arms to shield his flushed face from view with his hands, the musician's clammy palms muffling his miserable groan. "I can't believe that I was so gracious to the fucking bastard." He spat, arms dropping to hang limply at his sides when he tilted his head back to glare at the ceiling.

"Well," Jaskier sighed, breaking the silence that had descended over the room. "I'm famished. Why don't we forget that we ever had this conversation and go enjoy some hot stew, warm bread and shitty ale?" The Bard's offer was timid, a small, hopeful smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Geralt's burning stare drilled into him for a seemingly endless second or so, but he did eventually nod. Jaskier's grin brightens, and he beckons the Witcher to follow before pulling the door open.

Leaving the room, Jaskier made extra sure that the door was firmly locked, considering that Geralt's priceless potions were stashed in the room. He cheerfully passed said grumpy Witcher, giving his companion a wide, flirtatious smile as he pranced along. Jaskier caught the fondly exasperated roll of Geralt's molten eyes before he swiftly redirected his attention to where he was stepping, lest he give his traitorous feet the chance to send him crashing down the narrow staircase.

Upon arriving at the dining area and seeing that the Innkeeper is nowhere in sight, the musician visibly perks up. Jaskier spun, intending to suggest that they sit at the bar, but the Witcher was no longer behind him. Puzzled, the Bard's head whipped around until his eyes locked onto Geralt's broad back, he was halfway across the tavern. Jaskier's easy grin fell and he runs a frustrated hand through his hair, allowing himself a generous minute to feel bad for himself before he resolutely plasters a smile onto his face. He snagged the nearest barmaid by the wrist, holding her dainty appendage in a gentle grip.

"A hot meal for me and my friend, if you would be so kind. Oh, and two ales please." Jaskier gives the flushed barmaid a coy wink, offering the curvy woman his coin before waltzing over to the dark corner Geralt had settled himself into with more confidence then he feels. And this was another thing that the Bard had noticed over the course of his travelling with the Witcher, Geralt had a habit of selecting a spot at the edge of the room. The Witcher always kept his back to the wall, his bright eyes observing the setting laid out before him.

Jaskier plopped himself down across from where Geralt had made himself comfortable, the Bard's back to the room. He anxiously drummed his fingers on the table, the two just sitting in awkward silence. Thankfully the strange tension diffused when the barmaid from earlier arrived with their food and drink. The musician flashed her his signature naughty grin and she giggled, sauntering back to the bar, her hips swaying invitingly as she went. 

Jaskier breathed a dreamy sigh as he watched her go, wishing that he had it in him to take things further. It was abundantly clear that it wouldn't take much sweet-talking on his end in order to get himself into her bed, but for some reason his heart wasn't really in it. "So, you're certain that there's a contract here then?" Jaskier snagged his bread roll, picking it into tiny pieces before nibbling delicately at the small chunks. Geralt grunted, ignoring the provided cutlery in favor of simply lifting the bowl of stew to his mouth as if it were a cup, hands becoming messy as pauses his consumption of stew to stuff his gob with bread and roasted vegetables.

"You're here for the beast?" A young voice pipes up, and Jaskier twists around. A raven haired boy - no older than seventeen - stood to the Bard's right, his deep green eyes watched the Witcher with a type of hunger that Jaskier was all too familiar with. The musician cleared his throat, prompting the kid to tear his ravenousness gaze from his companion long enough to give Jaskier a disinterested once over. The Bard scoffed when the kid quickly turned his fervent attention back to Geralt, who had stopped eating in favor of scrutinizing the boy.

"Is there a posting for it?" Geralt asked, and the randy kid just about turned into a puddle of lust when the deep rumble of the Witcher's voice rolled over him. Jaskier couldn't deny that the growly rasp of Geralt's vocals was particularly pleasing, but he couldn't help but roll his eyes at the boy's dramatics. Regrettably, the kid seemed to take Geralt's inquiry as permission to move closer to their table. The boy saddled up next to Geralt, blatantly ignoring the Bard's existence. The musician's grip tightened on his spoon, nails digging crescents into his palms at the nerve of the little shit.

The Witcher bristled, metaphorical hackles rising, when the kid callously invaded his personal space. The boy's thigh was pressed flush against the Witcher's, the little shit blinking up at Geralt's significant height with faux innocence. Jaskier grit his teeth against the display, tempted to dump the remainder of his piss-poor ale over the fuckers head. The Bard swallowed a fair share of choice words, directing his resentful sneer at the tabletop. Jaskier would have to settle for mentally cussing out the infernal brat, seeing as he wasn't about to lower himself to having a petty squabble with the young harlot.

"Well? Is there?" Jaskier raised an eyebrow, making a movement with his hand that implored the infuriating brat to speed it up. He was filled with vindictive pride when the Witcher shifted his attention back onto the Bard, ruffling the feathers of the wench who'd forgotten that there was a such thing as personal space. The Witcher's golden gaze slid over to his gesticulating limb and Jaskier had a moment of confusion when Geralt roughly grabbed his wrist, pushing the Bard's slim fingers out of the way in order to look at his bloodied palm. Jaskier kept his narrowed gaze upon the green-eyed boy as Geralt methodically turned his hand this way and that.

"What did you do?" Geralt's biting baritone cut through his hate-fueled concentration and he pried his eyes away from the trollop to his Witcher. The man's gaze was, not soft per say, but it was an emotion he'd never seen on Geralt before. Jaskier blinked rapidly for a moment under the intense, questioning gaze of the Witcher. He stuttered pathetically as his mind went completely blank, the kid taking Jaskier's dumb spluttering as his opportunity to shift Geralt's interest back to himself.

"There's coin to be had if you slay the beast, mighty Witcher." Jaskier knew that he lost the Witcher's attention when Geralt released his hand, giving one last glance at the injured appendage, before turning back to the boy next to him. Jaskier's lip twitched up in a barely contained sneer when the little shit shoots him a mean, triumphant grin. If the brat wanted to make this a competition, then Jaskier would gladly indulge the boy and show him how much of a pig-headed bitch the Bard was capable of being. If Jaskier could win a battle of stubbornness against with an intimidating fucking  _ Witcher _ of all things, then a simple, horny human would be nothing.

"Could you direct me to the contract holder?" Geralt, ever the oblivious idiot, interrupts their fierce staring contest, making them both break away in order to look at the Witcher. Jaskier was about to give the boy an apology that he certainly didn't mean, and decline the need for a guide when the little shit interrupted him with a smug look. "That would be the Alderman. Fortunately for you, I'm his son. I'd be honored to escort you there, if you'd like?" Oh great, the little snot was the Alderman's _ kid _ . Talk about hiding one's sausage in the wrong pantry. Jaskier could only hope that Geralt wouldn't take up the kid's offer of an overly-enthusiastic lay.

Jaskier jolts when the Witcher stands, his startled expression shifting to incredulous. "And just where do you think you're going, my dear Witcher? Finish your food first." The Bard scolded and Geralt held his expectant stare for all of five seconds, before his resolve visibly crumbled and he sat back down. He used the last of his bread to scrape the clay bowl clean, practically lunging away from the table to make haste for the door, the boy not far behind. Jaskier finished up quickly as well, not willing to lose the both of them and leave the unsuspecting Witcher alone with the lustful boy.

"I bid you good luck, Witcher. I hope you return in one piece. The loss of you would be...unfortunate." The younger boy sure was laying it on thick, fluttering eyelashes and everything. The boy was obviously only interested in Geralt because he was a  _ Witcher _ , rumored to be no more human than the monsters they killed. The boy wanted a notch on his belt and Geralt could give him that, Jaskier just  _ really _ hoped he wouldn't. Geralt shouldn't be treated like some sort of conquest, he deserved better than that.

He deserved  _ so much _ better than that.


	7. Agathokakological: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why do we have to do this fucking shit at night." Jaskier hissed, glaring at the entrance of yet another pitch black hallway. He swallowed down his fear and tiptoed deeper into the dark maze of a castle, hoping that he wouldn't manage to walk right into one of the monsters. He was proven correct to worry when a hulking shape lunged out of the darkness, knocking him to the stone floor before dragging him by his pant leg into one of the nearby empty rooms. Once he was settled underneath the beast, he drew in a massive breath in preparation to scream. Thankfully, before he could start shrieking bloody murder, he registered warm, soft fur against his skin. All the air came out of him in a rush before ending with a pathetic squeak, Jaskier blushed a vibrant red with the embarrassing sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning against cruelty to Wyvern.

"So why didn't we bring Roach again? It'll take us  _ forever _ to get there without her." Jaskier complained, keeping pace with the grumpy Witcher beside him. They had been walking on the dirt road for around two hours before the Bard decided to begin making a fuss. Jaskier knew better than to play his lute so close to where the creature lurked, so it remained on his back as they walked. Instead, he hummed to himself, marching along to a beat only the musician could hear. Though Jaskier quickly became bored, desperate for some kind of stimulation, and aggravating Geralt into conversation, never disappointed.

"I'd rather not have my horse and all my supplies carried off." Geralt grunted out, like the tactless barbarian he was, never slowing his relentless pace. Jaskier sighed and they walked on in silence for a few more moments before the Bard darted forward, stepping out in front of the Witcher and effectively halting their forward movement.

"What are we dealing with again? A...uh...Wha-vur? Way-vurn?" Jaskier tapped a slim finger against his chin, eyes roving upward as if the lush green canopy above could provide the answer to what Geralt had called the winged beast. The Witcher stood imposingly where Jaskier had brought him to a forced stop on the worn path, scowling at the Bard's antics. "Wyvern." Geralt deadpanned, ending his playful guessing - which Jaskier had been _ enjoying _ , thank you very much - and passed the slim Bard in order to continue on to the ruins that he had scouted the day before.

"Right." Jaskier mumbled to himself, deflating a bit as he stood there alone. Hands limp at his sides and body clearly advertising his dejection. He breathed through all his dark thoughts of being useless and annoying, plastering a wide, fake grin on his face in preparation to turn and follow Geralt. Though, before he could, the Witcher's rough voice rang out.

"It's just up ahead." Sure, to anyone else it would have sounded indifferent, but Jaskier knew Geralt well enough to know that he wouldn't bother with a useless comment like that if he really wanted the Bard to stop. The smile on his face was suddenly much more genuine as he gracefully spun to face the Witcher, who had already put a few yards of distance between them. He'd stopped though, his body turned towards Jaskier. His back was stiff and his face eerily blank, a telltale sign that Geralt was attempting to show affection, but was severely uncomfortable and unsure about doing so. Jaskier breaks into a languid jog to catch up, Geralt only continuing on when the Bard is at his side.

They arrive at the ramshackle castle and Geralt quickly slows to a stop, grabbing the back of Jaskier's collar to keep him from marching straight into the ruins. The Bard frowns at the stern look on Geralt's face, the one that usually meant that he'd be witnessing the fight from the safety of the sidelines, and immediately swatted Geralt's hand away from his rumpled jacket to protest. Geralt ignored his blathering and Jaskier shut his mouth with a click that's more sound than pain when the Witcher randomly began to strip out of his clothes.

Jaskier couldn't make himself look away or turn around, as inch upon glorious inch of Geralt's body was revealed to him. It vaguely occurred to the Bard that it was odd that Geralt left for the contract without his armor, but it made sense now as he watched the Witcher fish a milky white potion out of the small pouch secured to his belt. Geralt turned to face away from him, giving the Bard his back and Jaskier had to fight every instinct he had in order to keep his gaze on the safety of the Witcher's shoulder blades and not let his eyes wander down to stare at the man's pale, shapely backside.

Geralt tilted his head back, bringing Jaskier's attention to the elegant length of his neck as he downs the vial in a single gulp. He proceeded to carefully place the empty bottle back into the pouch, then just...waits. Jaskier expected the loud snap - almost used to it at this point - but he most certainly was  _ not _ ready to watch the Witcher's spine ripple and protrude, like a snake slithering under his skin, giving Jaskier a grotesque display to associate with the sound for the  _ rest of his life _ . The Bard gagged and had to tear his eyes away before anything tried to come up, hand positioned over his pounding heart. Geralt's muscles coiled as he angled his head to the side, his ear faced out towards Jaskier as if to hear him better. The Bard caught a glimpse of dark veins climbing over the Witcher's face, originating from his pitch black pools for eyes.

"I'm good. I'm okay, just...wasn't expecting that." Jaskier wasn't expecting a response either, Geralt never spoke during the shift. When he'd asked why in the dead on night after they'd settled in for sleep, and the Witcher told him that he was too focused on breathing through the pain as his bones reshape themselves beneath stretched skin to make  _ idle conversation _ . Jaskier hadn't pushed, but he had an inkling that the real reason for Geralt's silence during the shift was because if he unlocked his jaw, he would start screaming and wouldn't  _ stop _ .

The Bard certainly didn't envy the Witcher as the shift finally went into full gear. Geralt huffed out heavy breaths as more uncomfortable cracking noises echoed through the air, and thanks to the multiple instances where Jaskier watched him change forms, he was able to conclude that the whole ordeal took around one minute. Like clockwork, Geralt uncurled from his hunched position, shaking out his fur before turning those demonic eyes onto the unruffled Bard.

The musician gave the Witcher a pleading look, trying one final time to voicelessly convince Geralt to let him come with. Instead what he got was a series of growls, grunts, and huffs as the beast paced before him, gesticulating as if he were angrily ranting. It sounded suspiciously like the Witcher was scolding him even without his ability to speak English, it was impressive.

"Oh,  _ fine! _ Have it your way." Jaskier scowled, throwing his hands up into the air in defeat. Geralt breathed something that sounded like a purr of agreement - or maybe approval - that has Jaskier narrowing his eyes at the wolf. The Bard made several rude gestures at him until the Witcher snarled and left, quietly entering the ruins. There were a few moments of silence as Jaskier searched the windows, looking for any sign of movement. He releases a relieved exhale when he manages to spot the familiar, hulking shape of Geralt prowling past the second story window, white fur standing straight up as he silently padded through the stone hallways.

Jaskier shivered, sometimes he forgot that Geralt was a mutated Witcher, relentlessly trained to kill almost anything with practiced ease. The Bard was distracted from his musings when he caught movement by the third story window a couple paces behind Geralt. A mean grin spread across the musician's lips at the sight of the unknowing victim, the monster didn't stand a chance against the White Wolf. That was until he saw a dark shape in one of the first floor windows, on the  _ opposite _ side of the castle. It couldn't have been Geralt and he could still see the first shadow moving past. He squinted, breath stalling in his lungs when a pale beam of light from the moon shimmered on a dark reptilian wing, before it disappeared from view.

Jaskier didn't even think about it, he just dropped all his shit onto the ground and sprinted into the dark castle. He wasn't about to have a repeat of the Warg situation, it'd taken forever for Jaskier to assure Geralt that _ yes _ , he  _ could _ come along and see the decimation of the monster without almost kicking the bucket. The Bard hissed a curse and ducked into the nearest room when an ominous clicking echoed through the dark hallway to his left. It wasn't Geralt, he was always careful not to let his claws make much noise whenever he skulked about.

Jaskier straight-up  _ held his breath _ when a large, dragon-like creature scraped past. It didn't so much as pause, continuing down another hallway before turning a corner. Jaskier waited until all he could hear was his rabbiting heartbeat before cautiously moving from his hiding spot. He'd seen Geralt on the second floor on the east side, so that was where he decided to check first. He tried to be quiet, though he couldn't help but feel like each step he took echoed off the walls, signalling his location to the hungry Wyverns.

"Why do we have to do this fucking shit at night?" Jaskier hissed, glaring at the entrance of yet  _ another _ pitch black hallway. He swallowed down his fear and tiptoed deeper into the dark maze of a castle, hoping that he wouldn't manage to walk right into one of the monsters. He was proven correct to worry when a hulking shape lunged out of the darkness, knocking him to the stone floor before dragging him by his pant leg into one of the nearby empty rooms. Once he was settled underneath the beast, he drew in a massive breath in preparation to scream. Thankfully, before he could start shrieking bloody murder, he registered warm, soft fur against his skin. All the air came out of him in a rush before ending with a pathetic squeak, Jaskier blushed a vibrant red with the embarrassing sound

"Geralt." Jaskier starts, but he's interrupted by the Witcher's clawed hand lightly pressing down on his chest. A bid to stay quiet. The Bard frowned, gently placing his hand over the paw that was effectively pinning him to draw the Witcher's attention back to him. "No, Geralt. I need to tell you something." The wolf shook off the Bard's touch and made a noise akin to, _ 'out with it'. _ Jaskier stared at Geralt, a little hurt, but continued anyway.

"There's more than one Wyvern, spotted them and figured you wouldn't appreciate being ambushed again. You're  _ welcome." _ Regardless of being the target of Geralt's irritated stare, Jaskier couldn't help but puff out his chest to preen a bit. He'd successfully given Geralt the necessary information without getting one or both of them killed. Unfortunately, his gloating only lasted a moment or so before a strange scratching noise grabbed their attention. Jaskier gulped nervously, mouth suddenly dry as luminescent eyes flashed in the shadows that shrouded the corner of the room in relative darkness.

The third Wyvern was actually quite small, an infant compared to the two other, full grown, Wyvern that were most likely the parents. It rose from it's bed of blood-stained straw, which was decorated with a fair amount of half-consumed human remains. Even as young as it was, it was still a terrifying creature. It had the same equipment as the other two, razor sharp claws and a mouth full of teeth made to kill. "Nice..." Jaskier fumbles for a word under the creature's blank, intimidating stare. "...lizard?"

It apparently didn't like that, cause it lifted its maw to the ceiling and let out a deafening screech that echoed off the stone walls, carrying the angry sound throughout the castle. There were two answering cries, much closer than Jaskier was comfortable with.  _ The parents _ . Geralt shot up and made an aborted move to silence the creature, but froze for a moment, ears flicking about atop his head. He growled low in his throat before firmly plastering himself over Jaskier just as one of the adult Wyvern's crashed through the crumbling stone wall to their right.

Jaskier was about to question the Witcher's hesitance, when the Bard realized that in moving to kill the baby, he would have left Jaskier unprotected against the bigger, more deadly monsters. Now, if Geralt so much as moved an inch, it gave the creatures an opening to drag Jaskier out from underneath him and turn the Bard into a meal. Which explained why the wolf flattened himself over Jaskier, leaving no gap between them, as he snarled haughty at the circling Wyvern.

"Oh  _ shit!" _ Jaskier's voice goes about three octaves too high as one of the creatures snaps at Geralt's hind leg, close to the Bard's own feet. The Witcher growls and snaps his jaws back at the circling monsters, who are getting more and more aggressive with their attempted gnawing. Meanwhile, Jaskier focused on making himself as small as possible underneath the bulk of fur and muscle that was Geralt. He couldn't afford to be dragged out, the Witcher was already severely overwhelmed and Jaskier didn't need to add to that. Though, of  _ course _ , the universe didn't care about his intentions, as usual.

The Wolf was so focused on the much more aggressive adults, that the baby seemed to slip right past Geralt's defenses. Jaskier cried out as the small Wyvern bit down, getting a hold of his left arm and beginning to pull. Even with it's smaller stature, it was still much stronger than a lanky human such as himself. The Wolf got a grip on Jaskier's opposite shoulder, keeping the creature from pulling the Bard any further from him. When Geralt tried to turn towards the baby, he was stopped when the two others lunged at him in quick succession, forcing his focus away from Jaskier.

The Bard struggled in it's jaws in an attempt to maybe wiggle his way out and back safely under his Witcher. There was a loud, startling pop as the small Wyvern tightened its grip on Jaskier's limb and yanked hard, the sudden noise forcing him to go still. It took a minute for the pain to register, but when it did, it hit him all at once and it was excruciating. His mouth dropped open to let loose a high-pitched keen when the Wyvern jerked it's head a second time, pulling again on his already severely injured left arm.

His cry was answered with roar, Geralt lashed out, grabbing the nearest creature by the foot and throw it out the doorway before kicking the other so hard that it went through a wall. The Witcher pivoted to swipe a massive claw out at the Wyvern gnawing on Jaskier's arm, sending it flying into the wall furthest away from the pair. It made a valiant attempt to defend itself, but it was still just a baby, and Geralt was a furious Witcher hopped up on potions and the instinct to protect. The wolf stalked forward, his fingers curling around the creature's neck and squeezing. The Wyvern's wheezing cries made something in Jaskier's stomach flip-flop and his eyes burn.

"Geralt-" His plea cut off with a choked sound when the Witcher ruthlessly smashed the creature's head against the stone ground, and then he did it again. Once, twice, _ three times _ . The Wyvern was shrieking, the sound ringing in his ears. It's skull cracked open on the forth hit, the desperate noises abruptly ceasing. But he didn't stop there,  _ no _ . He kept smearing it's bloodied head against the stone floor, droplets of crimson sailing through the air to splatter onto his boots. Jaskier stared at the beads of blood numbly, his eyes shifting back to Geralt when he carelessly dropped the limp body into its nest.

Jaskier blinks sluggishly against the unnerving rawness that froze him, the strange desensitizing sensation abruptly drains out of him when the other two Wyvern arrive back on scene with a deafening screech. One barrels into Geralt, knocking him away from Jaskier, while the other takes the offered distraction to prowl towards the defenseless Bard. He scurried back as fast as he could with only one working arm, until his back hit a wall, trapping him. The Wyvern was quick to strike, darting forward so fast the Bard didn't even have time to scream. He slammed his eyes shut and curled up as much as possible...but nothing happened.

He cracked an eye open, face blanching when he saw the Wyvern's jaws clamped around Geralt's arm. Jaskier saw a shape moving out of the corner of his eye and yelped when the second Wyvern lunged at him from the side, intercepted at the last minute by the Witcher. His free hand snapped out to grab a hold of its wing, yanking it off balance before throwing it into the one gnawing on his arm. The two creatures collided against each other, freeing his arm as they tumbled into a screeching heap onto the floor.

The Witcher didn't waste any time, snagging Jaskier by his uninjured arm to pull him into the curl of his elbow. The Bard bit his lip against the pain in his shoulder when Geralt tore out of the room, sprinting down the hall. The Wyvern weren't far behind, he could hear them clicking and trilling at one another as they gave chase. Geralt leapt down a flight of stairs jarring the Bard's burning limb, causing Jaskier's vision to white out.

When he came to, he was tucked into a small cave of sorts, Geralt poised at the entrance. His fluffy ear swiveled toward the Bard when he propped himself up with his good arm, hissing at the acute throb in his shoulder. "Ugh, ow." He complained, hazy blue eyes fixing themselves onto Geralt. "How long was I out?" The Witcher still didn't turn, but he did lift his bloodied hand to hold up four clawed fingers. "Minutes?" He asked hopefully, wincing when Geralt's head shook. "Hours then, wonderful." Jaskier huffed, eyeing Geralt for a moment.

"What the hell was that? Earlier, when you _ mutilated _ that Wyvern's corpse?" Geralt makes an odd huffing noise and beckons the fuming Bard closer. Jaskier stepped up next to Geralt before sitting down, his clothes were already a lost cause so he didn't care much anymore. In front of him was a beam of moonlight that made a portion of the ground visible, there Geralt placed a single sharp claw and began to carve into the stone floor. Slowly, Jaskier was able to recognize that the Witcher was writing down the number twelve, the Bard's hackles rising at the lack of a fulfilling explanation.

"Twelve!? What the hell is a _ number _ supposed to explain, Geralt! How does it justify you bashing a baby's head against the stone until-" Jaskier had to cut himself off when his voice cracked, the threat of tears making him turn away from the Wolf so that Geralt couldn't see him rub furiously at his watery eyes. Jaskier felt a light tugging at his pant leg and gave one last pathetic sniffle before looking down at the Wolf. Geralt's ears were plastered to his skull and his tail hung limply between his legs as he stared up imploringly at Jaskier, claw still poised to write.

"Okay, okay. Twelve...twelve what? Hours?" He guessed and Geralt nodded, Jaskier's lips pressing into a thin, confused line. "Twelve hours until what? And what does this have to do with you torturing that poor creature like some sort of animal-Oh." All the signs suddenly clicked into place, bringing him to a conclusion that he  _ really _ didn't like. "In twelve hours you go feral, the Wolf takes over completely, right?" Geralt's silence told him everything he needed to know and Jaskier ran a hand through his already disheveled hair with a sigh. "Let me guess, it's not reversible after the twelve hours have passed." The Witcher's nod was sharp, uncomfortable.

"Can't you just change back right now?" Geralt leveled him with a flat look, and Jaskier clicked his tongue. "No swords, right. What happened to being prepared for everything?" The Witcher growled, obviously insulted by his comment; but before he could defend himself, Geralt's attention snapped away from Jaskier, his hand reaching over to push the Bard behind him. They stood in tense silence for a long moment, the Bard's eyes jumping between the crumbling ruins that lay beyond Geralt to the Witcher's tight expression.

"We shouldn't stay here long." Jaskier advised, and the Wolf snorts in agreement.

* * *

The Wyvern found them five hours later, which was purely by accident. Mostly Geralt's fault anyway, he'd been steadily getting more and more animalistic as the hours ticked by, sometimes randomly changing direction like he'd forgotten what they were doing. It was during one of these episodes that they managed to walk into both Wyvern. At first, Jaskier had been worried that Geralt would leave him to his own devices. It turned out to be an unfounded fear because - if anything - the Witcher was  _ more _ aggressive when it came to his safety.

The Bard was torn out of his thoughts when the remaining creature dropped with a cry, it's vulnerable belly showing and the Wolf dove in. Jaskier almost threw up when, using his razor sharp teeth and claws, Geralt dug further into the soft flesh with his maw, like he was trying to get his entire head into it's stomach to eat through the body. It was violent and animalistic, nothing like Geralt's usual fluid, practiced fighting style.

"Geralt that's-" Jaskier's voice cracks and abandons him, eyes glued to the wolf as it digs at the pile of gore on the cobblestone. He heaves an unsteady breath, clearing his throat before trying again. "That's enough." It was louder, but still not loud enough for the Witcher to hear him over the wet, squelch of the Wyvern's insides and his own snarling. Jaskier's eyes burn, warm liquid dripping off his fluttering eyelashes. At this point, the Bard was positive that Geralt had lost all cognitive thought, he just didn't know how to help.

"Geralt!  _ Stop!" _ That seemed to finally get his attention. The Wolf pulled itself from the body of the Wyvern and Jaskier swallowed hard. The entirety of Geralt's head was dripping with blood and viscera all the way up to his ears. The Witcher carelessly steps over the corpse and prowls toward where Jaskier stood in the courtyard, not an ounce of recognition in the Wolf's wild gaze. The musician's knees lock when Geralt's lips pull back in a snarl, showing off the red of his gums and his bloodied teeth.

This was a mistake.

He should have just snuck away and hid somewhere when Geralt first started showing signs of being...wrong. He knew that the Witcher was dangerous, but he never once thought that Geralt was a danger to him. He knew better than to take his eyes off the predator in front of him or give the wolf his back, so he couldn't run.

He was fucked.

Geralt lunged and Jaskier shrieked as massive paws came down onto his shoulders, pinning him onto his back. The Witcher opened his jaws and leaned towards his neck, sniffing as he went. "It's Jaskier! It's your friendly, harmless Bard, remember?!" Jaskier rambled, panicked as the growling became more aggressive, massive claws digging into the ground on either side of his prone form. He needed to convince Geralt that he wasn't prey. Jaskier tried to slow his rabbiting heart and calm his breathing, but the Wolf's continuous growl rumbling next to his throat didn't help matters much.

"Geralt, please." Jaskier pleads with the angry wolf when it's head rears back and it's jaws open wide. "It's me. It's just me." The Bard reaches up with his good arm and, using his warm shaking palm, brushes his hand from the Wolf's eyebrows down to his nose. He heaves a shuddering breath when his hand isn't immediately ripped off, his lips trembling when Geralt's growling lessens. Hoping against all hope that the petting was actually working, he does it several more times, gaining confidence with every moment he's not torn apart.

"It's okay. You can stop now." Jaskier soothed, still running his fingers over the crimson coated muzzle of the calming Wolf. Geralt blinks rapidly, as if just waking up from a long sleep, whining upon seeing Jaskier terrified on the ground underneath him. The Bard had no doubt that he absolutely reeked of fear. The Wolf shook his head, keeping up the panicked whimpering as he backed away from Jaskier.

"Oh, thank fuck!" Jaskier's body suddenly loses all tension as he dropped his trembling hand to his face, rubbing his forehead as he chuckled hysterically, probably smearing blood all over himself in the process. Though, it was currently the least of his worries, cause Geralt wouldn't stop making that heartbreaking noise. The sound cut off abruptly and there was the telltale crack of bones before human hands were suddenly hovering over him, as if they didn't know if they were allowed to touch.

"Are you okay?" Jaskier mumbles, eyes half lidded as he comes down from the adrenaline rush, reminding him of how running for his life for over nine hours was exhausting. Geralt made some kind of choked, wet laugh and took his words as permission to touch, placing his forehead against Jaskier's in a bid for comfort.

"Only you would dislocate your shoulder and leave it untreated for hours; go and gain the attention of a feral Witcher, almost getting killed in the process, and then have the nerve to ask me if I'm okay, you crazy fucking bastard." Geralt remained at the Bard's side, eyes frantic as he stared into Jaskier's bright blue, forgiving gaze.

"I think that's the most you've said to me all week, Geralt." Jaskier states playfully in an attempt to break the tension, but his voice wobbles. The Witcher's features pinch and he carefully lifts the musician and sets him on his unsteady feet. Geralt takes off Jaskier's worse-for-wear doublet and fashions it into a makeshift sling, before gently placing the Bard's injured left arm into the cradle of the fabric. Once the Witcher's finished, Jaskier sways a bit, so Geralt pulls his right arm over his shoulder to allow the Bard to use him as a crutch.

Jaskier's legs give out half an hour into their trek back to town, it's only thanks to Geralt's quick reflexes, and the tight arm around his waist, that keeps the Bard from going down like a sack of bricks. The Witcher wordlessly scoops the musician up into his arms, marching on with a grave expression that Jaskier hates. Geralt is stuck in his head, blaming himself for everything that went wrong today. When they got back to the inn, the sun was already high in the sky, making their dirty and blood-covered selves more noticeable. They got a few looks when they entered, but no one was brave enough to say anything about their appearance. All except one person, who seemed more than happy to share their opinion out loud.

"They made it back. That's too bad." Jaskier hears someone mutter to his left and spares a tired glance at the person, only to double take in shock as he meets the unapologetic gaze of the Innkeeper. Jaskier squirms until the Witcher is forced to put him down lest he drop him and immediately crowds into the Innkeepers personal space.

"What the hell is  _ wrong _ with you people?!" He demanded at the room as a whole, turning his attention back to the bristling Innkeeper. "The White Wolf slayed your monster, the least you could do is show a little gratitude!" Jaskier dismissed Geralt's angry hiss of his name, dodging the Witcher's sloppy attempt to grab him.

Unfortunately, Jaskier just succeeded in walking into a punch thrown by the Innkeeper. He stumbled as knuckles scraped across his jaw, busting his lip and causing him to bite his tongue when his dislocated arm jostled with the movement. The Bard caught himself on a nearby table and pressed a shaking hand to his mouth, tenderly poking at his injuries to survey the damage. There was a loud thud and he looked up to see that Geralt had the Innkeeper by the throat, growling threateningly as he backed the man up into a counter, trapping him with nowhere to go.

"What are you gonna do?" The Innkeeper snarled at the coiled Witcher, leaning into his constricting hand in order to get into Geralt's face, spittle flying to land on the Witcher's cheek. Jaskier winced, realizing what he'd done in going after the Innkeeper, as his eyes darted around the room. This town already had an agenda against Witchers, so any sign of violence from Geralt and they would certainly be run out of town, or worse. Jaskier made his way to where the Witcher was heaving, fury coming off him in waves.

"Geralt, come here." Jaskier gently placed a hand on Geralt's bicep, tugging lightly on the limb. The Witcher let his grip on the human's shirt release before disappearing entirely, his hand falling limp at his side. Jaskier took the tense Witcher and led him away from the judgmental glaring eyes of the crowd, up the stairs and into the relative safety of their shared room. The door to their room slams behind them, Jaskier groaning as he pokes at his injured shoulder. The flesh surrounding the awkwardly situated bone and visible socket was a mash of blues and blacks. He wouldn't be able to play for weeks, even with Geralt's magical raspberry potion.

While Jaskier was distracted, Geralt takes a rag, dipping it in a bowl of clean water that one of the barmaids brought up and wrings it out before giving it to Jaskier. The Bard takes it with a confused look and Geralt elaborates. "Your face." Geralt grunts out, gesturing to his own pinched expression as he spoke. Jaskier was immediately reminded of the drying blood covering the majority of his own visage, his lips curling down with distaste and disgust as he scowled. The Bard roughly scrubbed at his cheeks and forehead with the wet rag, turning away from the Witcher to gaze longingly at the inviting, soft-looking bed.

"I'm gonna need to put your shoulder back into place." Geralt's hushed voice comes from directly behind him, his hot breath ghosting over the shell of Jaskier's ear, and the Bard shivered at the pure intimacy of the action. He wondered when Geralt had snuck up behind him and how he had missed it. It seemed so obvious now. The warm line of the Witcher's body heated the entirety of his back. Geralt gently took his left arm out of the sling, throwing the unsalvageable material behind himself, before softly placing his hands over the bruised shoulder and freezing, hands cool over fevered skin. After a moment of stillness, Jaskier realized that the Witcher was waiting for a response and nodded.

"On three." Geralt gently gripped his wrist and put his other hand on his shoulder blade, stretching his arm back and slightly bending Jaskier over the chest at the foot of the bed. Jaskier was so focused on the coming pain that the provocativeness of the position didn't occur to him until hours later. The bard braced himself with his good arm and took a deep breath when Geralt began slowly counting.

"One." Nothing happened and he made the mistake of relaxing for a fraction of a second. The Witcher must have felt it, cause he barely got through saying  _ 'two' _ before taking the opportunity to jerk the Bard's wrist back while simultaneously shoving at his shoulder. Jaskier's voice did some things he didn't even know he was capable of doing and would never admit to doing. There was a sickening pop and the pain dulled from excruciating to aching mildly. He groaned and slumped in relief. Fortunately, Geralt was there to keep him steady and lead him to a nearby chair to sit down.

"Ugh... that feels so much better." Jaskier sighs as he slumps into the offered chair. He watches with half lidded eyes as Geralt heats a bath for himself, being covered in Wyvern gore for hours on end couldn't have been pleasant. Jaskier realized that Geralt, in his hurry to get the bard help, hadn't taken the heads of the creatures for proof. "Hey, you planning on getting paid?" Jaskier asks nonchalantly. Geralt peeks an eye open from his place in the wooden bathtub and gives him a deadpan stare that Jaskier interpreted as, 'duh. I killed the monster didn't I?' The musician rolls his eyes and sits up at the Witcher's scrutiny.

"Well, it's just that...you didn't take the heads with you and there were three of them and you should get paid a fair wage for three fucking Wyvern. I mean, the things almost killed you, Geralt. Not to mention that you almost went feral because of the lack of accurate information given to you by bigoted fools before the hunt...and I'll just do us both a favor and shut up now." Geralt snorts quite cutely and closes his eyes again, sinking further into the tub. Jaskier let his eyes linger for a moment, he can't help himself really. When the Witcher was calm and lax like this, it took years off of the man. Jaskier got up with a 'hmph' making sure Geralt knew he wasn't completely dropping the subject, just putting a pin in it.

"I know that you're hiding something from me, but it's fine. Keep your secrets." Jaskier flopped into bed, careful to leave half of it empty so Geralt could slip in next to him. The Witcher gave a hum of thought and got out of the tub, water sloshing as the level dropped suddenly. There was a moment of complete silence before the bed at Jaskier's back dipped, the very heavy, very naked man had sat down on the edge. Thankfully, Jaskier was so tuckered out, that he was asleep before Geralt laid down.

* * *

Early the following morning, the Innkeeper descended the staircase to open the tavern. As he navigated the tables and stools, he slipped on something wet, going down in a cursing heap. The water from mopping before closing must not have dried yet. He used a nearby chair to help haul himself up, bones creaking in protest in order to throw open the shutters, allowing the fresh air to come in, the room had a foul smell. He turns back to survey the slippery floor and choked on a scream at the gruesome sight of the pile of gore that'd been deposited onto one of the tables. It looked to be the headless corpse of some kind of small creature. There were rivers of dark blood running off the wood, creating large puddles on the floor.

The Innkeeper glanced down at his front and a horrified croak squeezed out of his vocal cords, his clothes were saturated with the vile liquid. His fear was smothered for the moment when he realized just who would pull something like this, rage spurring the man to storm up the stairs to that room. He threw the unlocked door open, balking at the empty room he was greeted with. The bed was rumpled, but clearly slept in. He moved forward, more wary now that the fury had simmered down to frustration. When he placed a palm on the sheets, they were stone cold.

The occupants were long gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the rushed ending, I spent all day working on this. Hopefully the next one doesn't take as long to complete, enjoy!


	8. Not All Monsters Have Fangs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Bet you's wishin' you kept ya mouth shut now, huh?" One of the men asked as he squatted before the curled up Bard. Jaskier spit into the man's face and laughs when he gets backhanded, wildly staring up at his bewildered kidnappers. "Me? Regret anything that comes out of my mouth?" Jaskier repeats wetly with a scoff. "Not likely." He then proceeds to verbally belittle all five men until he can't talk between bouts of screaming, then goes silent as his voice gives out on him entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...may or may not be kissing ass, I'm super sorry for having you all wait so long for updates. Forgive me?

"I mean, look at it. This town is  _ filthy!" _ The Bard exclaimed, shuddering as he carefully stepped around an unidentifiable black pile that oozed onto the cobblestone. They were in a dreary-looking town with even more miserable looking occupants. Geralt bought a room for the next two days, it was kind of him since he would be leaving Jaskier there for the duration of the contract, so the Bard would be staying there alone. As Geralt handed over the remainder of his coin to the barmaid for an ale, Jaskier tried his hand at livening up the tavern drunkards.

By his most infamous song,  _ 'Toss A Coin' _ he had the crowd riled up and singing along. Geralt was in the corner, brooding as he clutched a large tankard of ale, he had yet to drink any. Jaskier noticed that loud crowds always caused the man to go tense, his eyes darting around, it was the closest to anxious that Jaskier had seen him get. This time though, Geralt's gaze would often come back to where the Bard was before sliding away again.

There were a couple of guys who didn't get into the song like the others and it made Jaskier weary of them. Either they had no interest in music or - the more likely answer - they had something against Witchers. There were five in total and they all glared in Geralt's direction with obvious disdain, which had something  _ dark  _ coiling in his chest. Jaskier snapped out of his blank daze when a barmaid passed across his view, making him realize that he'd been openly staring at the scowling patrons. He hoped that none of the pugnacious men noticed his obvious lapse in control.

Jaskier quickly moved onto his next song  _ 'The Fishmonger's Daughter' _ another upbeat tune that almost everyone knew the lyrics to. He pranced around the tavern, being sure to pass in front of Geralt's isolated table to throw the Witcher a bright smile and a coy wink. His glower only seemed to deepen at Jaskier's flirty attitude, his sharp eyes trailing after the Bard as he joyfully frolicked away.

Jaskier wasn't paying attention to where he was going, otherwise he wouldn't have passed the table harboring the five men immediately after acknowledging the Witcher with a little too much familiarity. He missed the foot that flew out in front of his path so he, of course, tripped over it and stumbled. Thankfully, he was quick about catching himself on the adjacent table, the crowd going silent as his lute made a horrible _ twang  _ when his fingers scraped across the strings with his panicked flailing.

Jaskier heard Geralt's chair scrape across the floor, the noise echoing in the vast room. The men were chuckling amongst themselves as the musician caught his breath in his position against the tabletop. Geralt moved across the floor, the crowd parting like the sea in order to let the intimidating Witcher pass. He stormed past the men responsible, who'd stopped all sounds of cruel mirth to sneer at the Witcher's back. Geralt ignored them in favor of carefully pulling Jaskier up by his forearms to steady him back on his feet. His frosty eyes glancing over his lithe form, obviously checking for injuries. At Jaskier's small, reassuring grin, the Witcher released the Bard and menacingly turned to the man who had tripped the musician.

"That was unnecessary." He began slowly, his wide frame blocking Jaskier from view. "You do something like that again and I'll tear out your intestines, you useless  _ swine." _ His low, authoritative words morph into a dangerous snarl at the nameless offender. And before the idiotic man could respond and get himself decapitated, Jaskier took matters into his own hands and - grabbing Geralt's wrist - led the seething Witcher back to his abandoned table.

"It's okay. He was just being a petty bastard. Nothing I haven't dealt with before." Jaskier made sure he kept his tone light, fiddling with Geralt's armor, minutely adjusting it and brushing the dark material off. He got a hum in response that he translated into a  _ 'you shouldn't have to deal with it' _ which made the musician feel all warm and fuzzy.

"Well, since I've been traveling with you, any physical harm has been nonexistent." Jaskier offered, effortlessly carrying the conversation. At Geralt's deadpan look, he mentally went back over what he'd said and corrected the problem. "Uh,  _ almost _ nonexistent. I mean, up until today of course...maybe?" Jaskier certainly hadn't wasted any time before shoving his foot into his mouth, had he?

Geralt, thankfully, just rolled his eyes instead of acknowledging the Bard's awkward backtracking. The Witcher took a seat after Jaskier was finished with his fussing, the musician considered joining him but the whole of the tavern began to demand more songs from the talented Bard before he could so much as step toward the empty bench. Jaskier gave a bright smile and a shrug of,  _ 'what can you do' _ before he obediently pulled his lute in front of him and waltzed back into the drunken crowd, the approving roar of the building's occupants following him.

Jaskier noticed Geralt come and go over the next hour, the Witcher gathering supplies in order to complete his current contract. Jaskier was informed that it was Ghouls, not anything he hadn't seen or made a song about before, so he decided to stay in town and make some extra coin. Geralt had frowned when Jaskier informed the Witcher that he be staying behind, Geralt's jaw twitching in discomfort. But he didn't insist that the Bard accompany him, they both knew that they were running low on money and supplies, and the reward from the contract wasn't very much to begin with.

During a quick breather, Geralt pulled him aside in order to inform the heaving Bard of his imminent departure. Jaskier took a break, to the disappointment of the drunken tavern occupants, in order to see Geralt off. "Promise you'll come back?" Jaskier asked, fretting over Geralt and his provisions as the Witcher stood silently next to Roach. When no reply immediately followed his query, the Bard looked up from his fumbling to stare at Geralt, who sighed and turned his head to make direct eye-contact.

"Promise." Geralt spoke so quietly that Jaskier almost missed it, but when the soft words registered, his face hurt he was smiling so wide. The Bard stepped away from Roach, task finally completed, and bid the Witcher a heartfelt farewell. Geralt mounted his horse, hesitating with his hands on the reins, and Jaskier tilted his head at the Witcher questioningly. Geralt's mouth twisted like he'd just taken a gulp of horrid ale, Jaskier paid the strange expression no mind, waiting the stiff Witcher out.

"Stay out of trouble, at least until I get back." He murmured, brows furrowed like it _ physically pained _ him to say the words, to show that he _ cared _ . The fact that he even bothered to return the sentiment had Jaskier's insides lighting up like a forest fire, and all he could do was nod to appease the scowling Witcher. "Yes, fine. It's only fair." The Bard huffed, waving a dismissive hand at Geralt to urge him to get going. The Witcher didn't need to be told twice, tugging on the reins to lead Roach down the road. Jaskier waited until Geralt was completely out of view before going back into the rowdy tavern, the warmth in his chest lingering.

Over the following hours, Jaskier had quite forgotten about the five men and his earlier trip-up, joyfully playing a couple more common songs before taking a quick break. After eating and chugging two pints of ale, he'd stepped back into the middle of the room, switching to his more personal writings. He only got through the first chord of  _ 'The Song of the White Wolf' _ before someone rudely interrupted him.

"You best shut up about that damned Butcher, we don't wanna hear no more of that horseshit!" The man's four buddies let out murmurs of agreement and Jaskier gripped his lute, physically restraining himself from bashing the man over the head with his precious instrument. With all his focus going towards suppressing his need to physically maim, Jaskier's runaway mouth took the opportunity to voice his anger.

"I'll have you know, all my songs are based on  _ fact _ . Unlike your intelligence, which I am sincerely doubting the existence of." A hush falls over the tavern at his mocking words and Jaskier has a moment to reflect on the stupidity of his actions, before a tankard of ale is flying at his head. He quickly ducked and the wooden cup splintered against the wall where he just was, dousing him in a shower of watered down ale. The entire tense tavern occupants apparently took the flying mug as a green light to start a brawl. Jaskier quickly lost sight of his attackers in the ensuing chaos and he began carefully dodging fighting people, making his way towards the more calm part of the building.

He was almost to the cowering crowd when a handful of the back of his doublet was suddenly grabbed, yanking his back into the fray. More hands were grabbing him and forcefully hauling him towards the door. It was pretty late, so it was dark outside and the Bard knew that if these harebrained idiots got him out there and away from other people, he was fucked. In a panic, he stomped down onto someone's foot and knocked his head back into another's face until he heard something crack and the hair at the back of his skull became wet and sticky. He shakes the hands off him and swivels around, wielding his lute like a bat, facing his attackers head on. Sure enough, it was the same group of five men that had given him a hard time earlier. The only difference now being that Geralt wasn't here to protect him this time, and Jaskier could tell by the looks on their faces that they knew it too.

When one tried to rush him, Jaskier swung his lute and heard a grunt as it connected with flesh with a  _ dull thwack _ . Three of the men got close enough to hold him still in order to viciously rip the lute from the Bard's grasp and throw his instrument into the brawl to be promptly trampled, the musician laments it's untimely demise for a generous moment before ducking underneath an arm and dodging a punch only to stumble into a wall. He moves to put his back to the wall, like he'd seen Geralt do, and began lashing out at the five humans cornering him. It took a minute, but one caught his wrist and dragged him away from his safety and to the open door. Jaskier grabs a hold of the door when they drag him across the threshold, keeping three men outside and two in the building with him.

Jaskier clutched onto the door frame and yelled for help, but he knew that he couldn't be heard over the noise of the battling mob. There was suddenly a hand in front of him, covering up the lower half of his face, which made it nearly impossible to scream for help or  _ breathe _ that matter. The Bard felt his fingers begin to slip as the tugging became more desperate. He clung to the wood of the frame until his nail beds cracked and splinters dug themselves under his nails, which began to drip crimson. He shook his head until the hand slipped down his face in between his teeth and then bit down,  _ hard _ . They let go of him with a cry and Jaskier turns his head to spit the two chunks of flesh out onto the ground, along with the fucker's blood as they back off with a cry of pain.

"Fuck! The little bitch bit off m' fingers!" Jaskier checked and, sure enough, where the man's right ring and pinkie finger should be, were two bloody stumps. When the man looked up to stare at him in anger, the Bard smiled, making sure to show off his red teeth and mouth. It was worth the look of horror on the two men's faces. He ended up getting punched so hard his ears rang, but he didn't lose his hold on the frame, so he counted it as a win.

The grip on his legs and waist went ominously lax and Jaskier's face screwed up in confusion before there was a powerful tug, his grasp disappearing as his left shoulder dislocated with a loud pop and the Bard fell out of the tavern door with a cry of agony. To make matters worse, none of the three men outside bothered to try and catch him, so he landed on his stomach, jarring his injury.

Jaskier is brought to his feet with a weak groan and dragged towards a dark alley where they wouldn't be bothered as they beat him to death. The Bard probably should have been more terrified than he was, but the burning pain in his shoulder was distracting. It had just become healed enough for Geralt to allow him to play about a fortnight ago. Though Geralt had warned him of straining the joint, telling him that the moment Jaskier dislocated it the first time, it made that joint more likely to do it again, Jaskier hadn't taken him very seriously. He was wishing he did now, as the Bard was dropped onto the grimy stone of the alleyway.

"Bet you's wishin' you kept ya mouth shut now, huh?" One of the men asked as he squatted before the curled up Bard. Jaskier spit into the man's face and laughs when he gets backhanded, wildly staring up at his bewildered kidnappers. "Me? Regret anything that comes out of  _ my _ mouth?" Jaskier repeats wetly with a scoff. "Not likely." He then proceeds to verbally belittle all five men until he can't talk between bouts of screaming, then goes silent as his voice gives out on him entirely.

*** * ***

Geralt came back a little earlier than he thought he would've. He may have pushed Roach a bit more than he usually would, but he couldn't explain why he felt the need to return to Jaskier as quickly as possible. He rode into town the next afternoon, the head of a drowner hanging, slack-jawed, off the side of his saddle as he passed whispering residents. He ignored them as he usually did, continuing on to collect his bounty from the contract holder. From there he headed for the stables to settle Roach, then made a straight beeline to the tavern that Jaskier was staying at.

He threw the door open - absentmindedly taking note of the deep scratches in the frame - before entering. The tavern looked a little more worse-for-wear than he remembered it being when he left. Immediately, the low buzz of the building disappeared, all eyes on his as he steadily marched across the bar to the stairway. Jaskier's assigned room was completely barren of his things and smelt as if the man hadn't even stepped foot into the place. With a low, menacing snarl, Geralt stalked back down the steps and prowled over to the nearest patron. The poor man looked like he was about to pass out, so Geralt kept his questions brief.

"The Bard, where is he?" The Witcher didn't bother elaborating, everyone already knew who he was asking about. The young man's eyes bounced around the room, most likely looking for help from the surrounding townsfolk, and finding none. He swallowed hard when he inevitably realized that no one would come to his rescue, and that the Witcher wasn't leaving until he'd given up some useful information. He deflated and began explaining in a pleading tone. 

"There was a fight and we all lost track of him, no one noticed his disappearance until everything died down. I swear to  _ Melitele _ that we all searched for him, but we couldn't find any sign of where he might've gone." He nervously wrung his hands together, still struggling to make eye-contact, but Geralt could tell from his steady - if fast - heartbeat that he was telling the truth. He turned away from the man in an angry daze and made his way to the door...until he heard a familiar voice laughing at the bar.

He pivoted and let the door slam shut behind him with a loud bang, most of the people in the room with half a brain flinched at the noise. Though the man just kept on chattering away to the terrified barmaid in front of him. It was one of the five men that had hassled Jaskier the day before, and Geralt hoped above all hopes that the person he was referring to wasn't his Bard. The things he claimed he did were enough to make his stomach drop and something animalistic within him shift.

"...then I broke the fuckers nose and he didn't have anythin' more to say on the matter after that." The man laughed drunkenly, the sound grating Geralt's eardrums. The pig seemingly unaware of the tense atmosphere and the danger lurking behind him, just out of view. He said a couple more things that had the Witcher's stomach cramping with the need to throw up as Geralt made his way toward the bar. The fuming Witcher drops a heavy hand onto the human's shoulder, roughly spinning the man around to face him, before pinning him up against the mahogany bar top. There were a couple cries of alarm, but no one bothered to try and intervene.

_ "Where is he?" _ Geralt demanded, practically frothing at the mouth with fury. The man lifted his hands in a placating gesture, denying the fact that knew anything about the Bard's abrupt disappearance. The Witcher leaned in close to bare sharp canines at him, but he kept up the rouse. Seeing as he was getting absolutely nowhere, he shoved away from the man with a frustrated growl. He tried to come up with something that would keep the man intact, but in considerable pain, but his attention was grabbed and held in a vice grip when the barmaid silently placed a familiar, mangled lute onto the counter top in front of the two of them. 

They both stared at it for a tense moment before Geralt hissed a curse and grabbed the man's neck, dragging him out of the tavern and out into the road. Most of the people inside didn't dare follow them out and the people that were already outside scrambled to get out of the vicinity. Geralt appreciated the privacy, he had a feeling that things were going to get bloody. He threw the man to the ground and noticed his heavily bandaged hand when it was thrown out to catch his fall. Two of the man's fingers were gone and Geralt's chest warmed with pride, Jaskier fought like a cornered animal when threatened, becoming entirely unpredictable.

"I'll ask again." Geralt warned, moving around the kneeling human to stand in front of him, unsheathing his iron blade from his back and pointing at his chest. "Where is he?" The man spits at Geralt's feet, a glob landing onto the toe of his black leather boot. "I'm not telling a freak like you  _ nothin'." _ Geralt proceeds to slam that same boot into the man's chest, making him sprawl out onto his back. The Witcher jammed his blade down into the man's good hand, reveling in the scream that followed. If it wasn't glaringly obvious before, the fact that this man was somehow involved in the Bard's vanishing act was clear now.

_ "Tell me!" _ Geralt roared into the sobbing man's face, stomping down onto the human's injured hand and pressing until the motherfucker gave in. "Alright! Alright!" He wailed and Geralt let up on his three-fingered appendage, leaving the other pinned with his sword. The man's eyes flickered back and forth between Geralt and a nearby alley as he spoke. "We left him in a barn on the other side of town." The Witcher glanced away from the shit-stain on the ground, to the alleyway and back. The look on the man's face meant he knew that he had been caught in his lie. Before he could open his mouth to plead for his worthless life, Geralt left him in the road, hand pinned, and made his way into the dim alley.

The scent of blood was overwhelmingly suffocating in the narrow space, the Witcher had to take shallow breaths in an attempt to keep himself from being ill. Geralt's gaze raked over the dimly lit area, his heartbeat racketing up a few notches when his eyes landed on a familiar figure that was slumped up against the wall. The Witcher's stomach dropped and his breath stalled in his chest, his lungs squeezing. He'd recognize Jaskier anywhere, even as covered in blood and dirt as he was. For a moment, only a moment, Geralt believed the Bard to be dead. That was until he realized that he could hear two heartbeats in the alley, one significantly slower than the other.

"Jaskier!" The Witcher rushed forward and checked him over. The limp Bard was unresponsive and his breathing labored, but he was _ alive, _ Geralt just had to make sure he stayed that way. He gently picked up his friend and carefully carried him out of that dark place, rushing to the nearest shop to ask after the town healer. Jaskier's lashes fluttered when he kicked in the healers door, the elderly woman who was inside yelping at the violent intrusion. Geralt paid her no mind, stomping over to the nearest cot to gently deposit the Bard onto the soft furs.

"Oh my, what happened?" The lady's aged eyes were calm - if a little shocked at the sight of him - not that he blames her. A Witcher, running around like a madman with a bloody human would give any sane person pause. But he didn't have time for questions, Jaskier needed help  _ yesterday _ . "A beating." Geralt sneered, reminded of the sniveling pile of shit that he'd left at the tavern. He hovered by Jaskier's side as the woman puttered around her shop, grabbing this and that. A low groan is the only warning the Witcher gets before the Bard bolts upright with a cry, Geralt immediately grabbing his flailing wrists.

"Jaskier, stop. It's Geralt. You're okay, I've got you." Geralt grunted when the musician's boot lashed out, the tough heel connecting with his thigh, the Witcher had a feeling that he was aiming for something else though. Geralt wrestled both the musician's straining wrists into one hand, using the other to tap two fingers against Jaskier's forehead, letting them linger for a second or so before dragging them down to the tip of the Bard's nose, an imitation of the petting that served well to anchor Geralt himself. It seemed to spark some sort of familiarity because the Bard paused, and Geralt warily leaned in. 

"Jaskier, open your eyes." The Witcher worked to maintain a low and non-threatening tone, careful to keep all the anger he felt out of his voice. The Bard's bloodshot eyes squinted open, darting around in a dazed panic before locking onto the unnaturally still Witcher. "Ger'lt? What're you doin' h're?" He slurred, blinking sluggishly. Geralt released the breath he didn't even know he'd been holding, and relinquished his hold on the Bard's wrists to instead rest his hand on Jaskier's chest.

"Th'res mor'en one Ger'lt, they...they gang'd up on me. 'M sorry." His bright eyes were wet, voice wobbling with fear. His scent soured, and Geralt hated it with every fiber of his being. "Don't apologize, it wasn't your fault. I should have taken you with me." Jaskier shook his head, making a noise of avid disagreement. "Don' say that. It isn' yers either." Geralt swallowed past the lump in his throat, even beaten down and bloody, Jaskier still took priority in making sure the Witcher didn't blame himself.

"Rest now, you're in safe hands." He threw a meaningful look at the healer, who stiffened with a soft squeak at his dark glower. "I'll handle the rest." He assured, his hand reluctantly pulling away from the comforting rhythm that thrummed just beneath Jaskier's cracked ribcage. But the musician reached up to lace their fingers together, dragging his unresistant limb back down to his sternum. "I trust you." The words were clear, and Jaskier's half-lidded eyes were startlingly lucid when Geralt was finally able to pry his gaze away from their intertwined fingers. 

"I'll be back." The Witcher murmured, hunching over to rest his forehead against their clasped hands, allowing himself that brief moment of weakness. Relief and fury tangled up into a confusing mix of emotions that he wasn't trained to deal with. "Promise?" Jaskier echoes his words from earlier, clutching Geralt's hand like a lifeline. "Promise." He breathed, slowly moving away from Jaskier's prone form when the healer hesitantly tapped his shoulder, her frail arms overflowing with bandages and salves. The Witcher stares her down for a few seconds before gently pulling his hand away from Jaskier's, who let him go with a lamenting sound.

"Your friend will be fine." The healer's keen gaze jumps between the two of them a few times, but Geralt couldn't care less about what she thinks she knows. "He better be." And with that last, ominous comment, he leaves. It doesn't take long for him to make it back to the Tavern, and the pig was right where he'd left him, struggling to get off the sword with minimal pain and failing. When he spotted the Witcher approaching he began to plead for his life. Geralt ignored him and talked over the man's panicked ramblings. "Where's the rest of your group? There were five of you." Geralt crossed his arms and waited for an answer. Unfortunately, the man wasn't very forthcoming. 

"If I tell you, what's to keep you from killin' me?" The man questioned. He just had to decide to have intelligence now, didn't he? Geralt narrowed his eyes, glaring at the trembling human before humming at the man, neither a confirmation nor a refusal. "Promise?" His voice shakes as he stares up imploringly at the pissed Witcher. Geralt's golden eyes flaring and piercing the man as he twists the sword in his hand.

"Talk." He commands simply and the man fumbles through his response. "They went ahead of me, cause I got stitches for my hand and I needed to stay till it healed, so the healer could take them back out." He rambled, going off on a tangent and Geralt got him back on topic with another turn of the iron blade. "We- _ agh!  _ Agreed to meet back up at the tavern in the town just west of here" He sobbed grossly, snot and spit wetting the lower half of his face in a disgusting sheen. They probably set up camp in the woods between here and the next town, they didn't get much of a head start, having only left two hours before the Witcher's arrival.

Geralt pulled the blade from his hand and lifted it threateningly. The man's eyes widen and he begins blubbering incoherently. The Witcher can briefly make out the words "B-But you promised." And _ smiled _ , more a baring of teeth really. He thrust the sword up into the man's gut and he coughed out spurts of blood at the Witcher's feet. "I don't make promises to _ swine." _ Geralt snarled, twisting his sword before tearing the blade out of the pig's gut, viciously eviscerating him and leaving him to bleed out onto the uneven cobblestone of the road.


	9. Danger: Please Don't Feed The Animals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt comes-to violently, jerking in place as his eyes snap open. Going from limp with unconsciousness, to alert and ready to fight in less than a second. However, his unpredictable movement jostled Jaskier from where he was tied awkwardly behind him, the rope binding them together tightening to painful levels. The Bard wheezed out a whine and Geralt instantly froze, ceasing his instinctive struggle.
> 
> "Jaskier." He called out after a few moments of worrisome silence, a flame of concern flickering to life at the Bard's lack of response. He turned his head, but only caught a glimpse of Jaskier's feathery-brown hair and his ear. He felt a light tap on his stomach and looked down to see the outline of Jaskier's nimble fingers beneath the surface of the water, wiggling across his bare stomach. From the top of his midsection down, the Witcher was completely submerged in the murky water, clad in just his underthings.

"I've got a bad feeling about this place." Jaskier hissed, eyes narrowed suspiciously at the fourth overly-cheery person who'd waved and smiled at the two of them in an entirely too friendly greeting. Geralt hummed in response and Jaskier decided to decipher the noncommittal noise as his nonverbal agreement. When the Witcher just continued his forward path along the road, the Bard sighed.

"We're not going to skip this town, are we?" Geralt's lack of a response was enough of an answer in itself, but for some reason Jaskier couldn't shake the unsettling feeling of being watched. The chipper townsfolk weren't helping matters any either, there was something off about them too. But Geralt had already made up his mind, so the musician resigned himself to his fate of constantly looking over his shoulder for an unseen observer and a few sleepless nights.

They were helped by an older gentleman at the pristine stables, who was delighted to take Roach into one of the empty stalls to rest. Jaskier took note of the several other neatly-groomed horses in the shelter, wandering toward a curious black stallion that was peeking over the wooden gate. Jaskier scooped a handful of oats out of the bucket that he'd found hanging on a rusted nail nearby, offering the treat to the friendly horse.

"Any riders in town?" Jaskier inquired, turning curious cornflower blue eyes to the elder man. There were fourteen horses in total, far too many for the small number of able-bodied individuals in the community - most of the people the Bard had seen were either under ten or over fifty - and Jaskier didn't see any carriages or wagons coming in or out of town. He could only assume that they were from passersby and the various owners were holed up somewhere. At Jaskier's question, the stranger flashed him that odd smile everyone seemed to have plastered on their face.

"No. We mostly just use them for breeding." The reply sounded practiced, and - as an entertainer - Jaskier would know. The man paid no mind to the Bard's keen stare, casually patting the neck of another shifty chestnut stallion. Surely they could do that with two, but _fourteen?_ Jaskier had to admit that having that many horses just for _breeding_ was a bit excessive. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Geralt sniff the air before frowning at the back of the man's head, the Bard made a mental note to ask him about it later.

"Any idea of where we could stay?" Jaskier prompted the man into further conversation when it became apparent that Geralt was distracted by whatever he'd figured out. The elder nodded enthusiastically, pointing directly northwest of the stables. Jaskier thought that the old man's distinct, unnatural grin looked more than a little unhinged when he stared at it for too long. He couldn't imagine that it felt comfortable to hold such a wide smile for long periods of time, though all the townspeople seemed to be managing just fine.

"The Inn is that way. It's the tallest building here, you can't miss it!" Jaskier nodded thoughtfully, startled when Geralt stepped up beside him. His eyebrows were pulled low, mouth set into a scowl; he was obviously brooding over something. The Bard was momentarily distracted when the Witcher lightly dragged his knuckles against Jaskier's before wordlessly turning to leave, his steps were purposefully slow so the musician could easily catch up.

"Farewell! Thank you for the directions!" The Bard called over his shoulder, slowing to a comfortable walk beside his Witcher. Jaskier anxiously drummed a random beat out against his thighs with his fingers, his nerves were starting to get the better of him as the smiling faces of the passing townsfolk bore into their figures like ravenous beasts. He could feel their gazes like a physical weight, it only made him even more desperate to get this whole thing over with so they could leave and forget this strange place ever existed.

The unfinished building next to the well-kept Inn caught Jaskier's eye as they passed it, the thick wooden planks that had yet to be put to use were neatly stacked in front of the incomplete establishment. He spotted an older gentleman hammering away at the wood frame of a wall, causing the face Geralt had pulled earlier to pop to the forefront of his mind. "That thing in the stables earlier, when the man mentioned breeding and you made a face? What was that about?" Jaskier asked, glancing at the Witcher's expression in an attempt to gauge if the news would mean trouble or not.

"They were all male." The Witcher grumbled, reaching out to pull the Inn door open. He held it for the puzzled Bard, who obediently stepped past him to enter. "Pardon?" Jaskier blinked incredulously, Geralt didn't have a habit of elaborating without further prompting. The Witcher's molten gaze slid away from his inspection of the area, settling on Jaskier's imploring face for a moment. Geralt heaved a put upon sigh, starting across the room to lead the Bard to the table that he'd deemed safest.

"The horses in the stables were all males. Roach was the first female to step into that building in a long while." The perplexed tilt of Jaskier's head righted itself, his lips turning down into a skeptical frown. "Then how are they using them for breeding?" Geralt didn't bother replying, the two of them sitting in silence until Jaskier's eyes went wide. "...unless he was lying!" The Bard blurted, taking the Witcher's flat, unimpressed stare in stride.

The musician's mouth dropped open to ask if he had any theories about what might be going on, but Geralt's sharp eyes narrowed to glare at him for a moment before flicking to the side. Jaskier's own head turned, and it became abundantly clear that the subject would have to be dropped for the time being. A barmaid had paused next to their table to distribute two frothing tankards of ale between them, cheerfully informing the duo that it was on the house before moving on.

Jaskier didn't exactly know what to make of that, so he turned his questioning gaze to Geralt. The Witcher had picked up his own cup and was subtly sniffing at the contents, which could only mean that Geralt thought that there was a chance that someone had _done something to it_. The free drink must've passed his smell test because the Witcher swallowed a few mouthfuls before setting it aside, but the Bard's stomach was rolling. He pushed the cup to the edge of the table, close enough to Geralt that he could take it if he wanted to.

The Witcher's bright eyes flicked between the ale and the musician a few times, a question in his gaze. Jaskier shrugged, opting not to voice his dark thoughts. Geralt's lips thinned into a tight line, but the Bard knew he wouldn't press further. If he bothered Jaskier about it, the idiot would see his own inquisitiveness as caring too much. And, according to his strict _'Witcher Code,'_ caring was seen as a disadvantage, a _weakness_.

Jaskier thought quite the opposite.

If anything, Geralt seemed to fight _harder_ when those he cared about were in danger. The Bard had _plenty_ of first hand accounts that proved this seeing as he was usually the one being nearly maimed by the bloodthirsty monster of the week. Sometimes even a jealous lover took a stab - sometimes quite literally - at ending his flirtatious existence. But the Witcher was always there, planting himself between Jaskier and the threat with a fierce glare. It's during those instances that the Bard gets up close and personal with the beast that lurks beneath Geralt's skin, having a front row seat to the pure, animalistic _desolation_ that the Witcher is capable of.

And, for some reason, Jaskier remained untouched by the destruction that this messenger of death left in his wake.

The musician was unceremoniously startled out of his head when a drunken patron bumped into their table, the man's elbow accidentally knocking Jaskier's untouched pint of ale onto the floor. The inebriated fellow proceeded to fumble through an apology, while somehow managing to simultaneously dig into his pocket to grab and haphazardly toss a few coins onto the table before wobbling away. The Bard blinked owlishly at the odd behavior, most intoxicated men would sooner start a brawl before paying for some random Bard's spilled liquor. Jaskier's attention was redirected away from the strange encounter when he noticed that the puddle was actually _draining_ , the liquid slipping between the floorboards.

Which was _definitely_ weird.

He'd never been to an Inn with a basement before, he wasn't sure why such an establishment would need one anyway. Jaskier's curious blue gaze swept the room, puzzled when he didn't find any entrances other than the door that led into the building in the first place. He reasoned that it could be in the kitchen, out of sight from customers, and promptly let it go. When the barmaid came back around, Jaskier ordered them both a hot meal. She was back in a moment, setting their steaming plates in front of them.

And when Geralt leaned over the table, getting closer to the Bard's plate to pinch a heaping bite of pulled pork and roasted vegetables in-between his fingers before the musician himself could eat some, Jaskier was extremely thankful.

* * *

After they'd finished eating, Jaskier managed to purchase a room at an absurdly low price. The Innkeeper had been _very_ insistent about giving them a considerable discount, just another thing to add to his ever-growing list of suspicious things in this town. And he ended up taking the key without much need for convincing, proceeding to quickly seek out Geralt so they could make a tactical retreat to their room. Thankfully, it doesn't take long for the Bard to settle in, completely at ease with the Witcher's familiar presence nearby. 

Jaskier had made himself right at home in the windowsill, courteously working on a new song. Around half an hour had passed in relative silence, only broken by the occasional humming from the musician as he tried to match a tune to the lyrics, before Geralt inevitably got stir-crazy. He marched around the room to collect his rank, stained sack of monster innards, along his bag of herbs, before approaching the door.

"And just _where_ are you sneaking off to?" Jaskier mused, he was careful to keep his eyes fixed on the paper. Out of his peripheral vision, Geralt stiffened. The Witcher's hand hovered over the bronze doorknob for a moment before he turned to face the Bard. Those piercing molten eyes roved about Jaskier's figure in a way that made it clear that the Witcher was trying to get a grasp on the Bard's current emotional state. So, feeling a little mischievous, Jaskier made sure to give him absolutely _nothing_ to work with. He watched as Geralt struggled to come up with a response before ultimately showing the poor, clueless Witcher mercy.

"I'd say you're off to visit either a Mage or the Alderman considering what you're carrying." Jaskier finally pulled his eyes away from his messy scrawl, briefly scrunching his nose up at the disgusting bag, before flashing the Witcher a wide grin. Geralt relaxed when he realized that the Bard was in a perfectly good mood, the Witcher tended to get twitchy when the musician went quiet for more than an hour. "Both. Need more potions." And after a brief moment of thought, he adds, "And coin." Jaskier took a page out Geralt's book and merely hummed in response, waving a dismissive hand at the Witcher.

"Enjoy yourself, you brute." Jaskier huffed, perking up when he realized that Geralt seemed to be in one of his more generous moods. "Hang on." He held up a finger to implore the Witcher wait, which was unnecessary seeing as Geralt didn't hesitate to patiently heed the Bard's command to stay. Jaskier untied the pouch from his belt and tossed it to the Witcher, who easily caught the coin purse - even though his hands were already full - and stared at it questioningly. "If you could pick up some ink while you're out, dear Witcher, it would be much appreciated." Jaskier's eyes slid back down to his paper, hoping that he wasn't about to take his hefty pouch to the head. 

To his pleasant surprise, the door quietly opened and closed, announcing the Witcher's departure. It didn't take long for Geralt's unruly head of white hair to exit the building, but instead of taking the main road down to where the Alderman lived, the Witcher turned into an alley that led straight to the bustling market that was located in the town square. With a soft smile, Jaskier tore his appreciative gaze away from Geralt's back. His calm amusement quickly soured when he looked down at his newest piece, which promptly reminded him of why he needed more ink in the first place. 

He'd been wasting it on the sheet of music, attempting time and time again to corral the lyrics into something that he agreed with. For some reason, he was struggling with the words. Nothing in his vast vocabulary fit right, which caused the end result to sound bland and boring. He sighed, placing his quill down and staring at the little mocking letters, hoping that if he just glared at it long enough, the answer would suddenly come to him. He sat in silence for a bit before becoming aware of a rhythmic noise coming from outside. His gaze darted out the window, there had been a storm the night before, so the roof was still wet enough to contain small rivulets of water.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

The Bard held out his hand, catching the next drop as it fell. The water was cool and refreshing against his palm, and he was abruptly reminded of his drink spilling out onto the floor that was followed by the distant sound of trickling as the liquid fell through the floorboards. Jaskier set his pages aside, consumed by the sudden and overwhelming need to know what was below the Inn. The sun was still high in the sky, and would be for hours yet, so Jaskier felt confident enough to go snoop. After all, what was the worst that could happen to him in broad daylight?

He didn't feel the need to be sneaky, so he just casually left the room and went downstairs to the bar. He started to be a little more cautious when the feeling of being watched returned. He sat down to observe the room as a whole and found no evidence of a way below. He watched the swinging doors of the kitchen as the barmaid came in and out, often with bowls filled to the brim with savory smelling stew. Jaskier assumed that through the doors was the kitchen, and hopefully the basement entrance as well.

He waited for the barmaid to come back out to help a patron before leaving his seat, casually meandering towards the bar to lean up against it. From there, he inched over until he was right in front of the doors. He briefly glanced around before slipping through the doorway and around the corner, out of view of the main room. When no one immediately came in after him to demand to know what he was doing, his stiff shoulders slumped and he let out a breath of relief.

After a moment, he continued on with his quest, looking for any out of place doors or conveniently set shelves. He ended up finding the entrance by tripping over a rug and falling into the wall, which made a hollow _'thump'_ upon impact. He eagerly untangled himself from the feisty pelt and smoothed his palm over the wall until he felt a break in the surface. With a triumphant grin, he dug his nails in and pulled until the panel came free with a loud groan. 

He paid the noise no mind, too excited about his discovery, and stepped into the dim hallway, following it down underneath the building. He reached another door and opened it, peering into the dark room. With the light of the kitchen, he could just barely make out bins packed with piles of some kind material filling the massive room. Stepping in and fumbling around proved to be a success when he managed to feel out a torch on the wall. Jaskier found a rock and scraped it across the wall above the oil covered torch until it sparked and the cloth caught fire.

He dropped the rock and smugly stared at the lit torch, Geralt would never believe him if Jaskier told him. He pivots towards the bins, freezing as his eyes go wide and a spike of ice slithers down his spine. Piled high above the lip of the large containers was a plethora of shoes, clothes, leather bags, and other miscellaneous items. Then everything just clicked, the final piece coming in to complete the horrifying picture. The needless abundance of horses, the lack of other visitors, the odd interactions with the townspeople. It was all a hoax, a _trap,_ and the two of them had just waltzed right into it.

He shouldn't have come down here alone.

But he _wasn't_ alone, he's abruptly made aware of this when there's the telltale scrape of shoes on the dirt floor a moment before he was suddenly laid out on the ground. Pain flares to life behind his eyes and he was distantly aware of something hot and wet as it ran down the right side of his face to pool on the ground. His hazy blue gaze groggily moved upward and he was just barely able to make out the vague, blurry outline of a person before a dirty boot came at his head.

* * *

Geralt comes-to violently, jerking in place as his eyes snap open. Going from limp with unconsciousness, to alert and ready to fight in less than a second. However, his unpredictable movement jostled Jaskier from where he was tied awkwardly behind him, the rope binding them together tightening to painful levels. The Bard wheezed out a whine and Geralt instantly froze, ceasing his instinctive struggle.

"Jaskier." He called out after a few moments of worrisome silence, a flame of concern flickering to life at the Bard's lack of response. He turned his head, but only caught a glimpse of Jaskier's feathery-brown hair and his ear. He felt a light tap on his stomach and looked down to see the outline of Jaskier's nimble fingers beneath the surface of the water, wiggling across his bare stomach. From the top of his midsection down, the Witcher was completely submerged in the murky water, clad in just his underthings.

Geralt blinked down at his lap and squinted, trying to remember how he'd gotten to this point. The last thing he remembered was being with the Alderman, negotiating prices for the Griffin talons taken from the one he'd slayed last week, when he'd smelt it. His golden eyes had darted over to the open window and he'd sucked in a deep breath. 

There was no mistaking the bitter scent of Jaskier's blood.

Geralt had unsheathed his blade and pressed it against the man's neck, he could fuzzily recall demanding answers. Thankfully, the terrified human had easily given them. A monster. They had made a deal with a _monster,_ which made them no better than the savage beasts that he himself hunted. He hadn't given the Alderman a chance to plead for his life, taking the bastard's head off his neck with a quick wrist movement. He'd left his supplies behind, sprinting back to the Inn. Which happened to be the last place he'd seen the Bard and, conveniently, where the smell of blood was strongest.

He had arrived just in time to see the unconscious, _unclothed_ Bard being dragged to a nearby cart, Jaskier's attackers froze like spooked deer when they spotted him with his bloodied sword. When two of the six men drew melee weapons, he'd burst into a blur of movement. In just four large strides, he'd viciously thrust his blade into one of the men's mouth, the point bursting out the back of the bastard's head. He'd proceeded to carelessly jerk the sword to the side, tearing it through flesh and bone to block the metal pipe that another assailant swung at his head. 

He'd been equally as merciless in his disposing of the second man, knocking the asshole back before swinging his sword low. The sharp metal split the skin of the man's belly, reveling in the blood that'd splashed onto his face when the bastard's organs had poured out onto the street. He'd straightened to his full height, tongue flicking out to lap up the crimson that'd landed on his upper lip. A collective shudder rattled through the remaining four men at the display, he'd moved toward them. 

One of the assholes took a frightened step back, the man's wild eyes jumping to Jaskier's lax face, something akin to hope lighting up in the bastard's eyes a split second before he pulled a knife from his belt and pressed it against the Bard's pale throat in a blatant threat. Geralt had jerked to a stop, his lips peeling back to bare his teeth at the trembling men. The fucker with the knife ordered him to disarm himself, and he'd tossed his sword aside before the man even finished his sentence. He'd lurched forward when a two-by-four collided with the back of his head, the wood splintering with the force of the blow.

He'd twisted around, dazed and more than a little pissed, just in time to see the hammer.

Geralt grunted, pulled back to the present when the Bard's slim digits suddenly dug into his belly button. He shifted backward, closer to Jaskier, in order to escape the unrelenting pressure. There was a loud inhale from the body tied to him and Jaskier began to violently cough. "When you pull away from me, I can't breathe, so please _refrain_ from doing so." The Bard panted, fingers rubbing soothingly at the place he'd previously dug them into. 

Geralt felt around with his own hands and came to the conclusion that their arms were stretched behind their backs and looped around the other's waist. Rope was wrapped several times across their chests, binding the two of them together. A position that made it impossible to move lest one hurt the other. It was a surprisingly intricate way of immobilizing them. Geralt pushed up against Jaskier's back, as close as possible and tried to lift his arms as high as he could. 

Because of the binding on his chest, they didn't get very high and he couldn't pull any harder without putting pressure on his shoulders. "If you're quite done." Jaskier bitched as he squirmed, clearly advertising his discomfort. "Your verdict?" He bit out sarcastically when the Witcher didn't rise to his previous jab. "We're fucked." Geralt deadpanned, abandoning his attempts to wiggle free. He lifted his head up, staring at the unassuming blue sky as the sun joyfully beat down onto his bare shoulders. 

He heard a deep, suffering sigh ring out from behind him and rolled his eyes, ready for the spiel that was, no doubt, about to happen. "Oh gee, thanks. I haven't even noticed. In fact, thanks to you, I'm now a _wiser_ man..." Jaskier began, but Geralt expertly tuned out the musician's barbed words. Instead, he turned his attention to the marshland around them. It was quiet other than Jaskier's voice. Nothing stirred, it was unnatural. The hair on the back of his neck prickled when he saw something move among the vines and moss, his wary eyes sharpened as they raked across the otherwise undisturbed surface.

He saw it again, only mere yards from their position. It was humanoid, but it moved very strangely in the water, almost snake-like. Swaying side to side as it easily cut through the murky waves. He saw the face of a woman peeking at them, her wet black hair clinging to her thin, pale face. When she went under again, he got a glimpse of her tail flicking out before disappearing from view. He knew what they were dealing with and it wasn't looking good for them coming out of this alive.

"...the wool has been pulled from my eyes with your _revolutionary_ observational skills you big, DUMB - " Geralt cut off Jaskier's building insult with a snarl. "Jaskier! Shut up!" He strains his eyes, looking for any disruption of the surface so he could get an accurate idea of her speed and position. "And why should I!?" The furious Bard demanded heatedly. "Just because you don't want to hear it, doesn't mean that I'm not gonna say what needs to be said! This all could've been easily avoided if you would've just listened to - " Jaskier's rant abruptly cut off, his scent souring with fear. "Jaskier?" Geralt tries to keep his voice low and calm in an attempt to avoid making the Bard panic. 

He felt Jaskier tense up against him and twist his fingers together anxiously, knuckles brushing against the Witcher's chilled skin. "Can you tell me what exactly I'm looking at right now?" Jaskier whispered, a tremor in his words. "It's a Siren." Geralt replied, his voice tight. The Witcher carefully tested the bonds around his wrists once again, making an effort not to crush the air out of the Bard this time. Geralt paused his ministrations when he heard a splash. "Jaskier. What happened?" The marsh around them was quiet again and the Witcher focused his senses onto Jaskier. The musician was breathing quickly, heart rabbiting in his chest. 

"It's... gone?" Jaskier murmured, the words coming out more like a question. Geralt saw the water a few yards before him ripple suspiciously and felt his teeth bare themselves in a snarl. "No, it's not." The siren lunged out of the water and grabbed hold of Geralt's bound feet. She paused a moment to give Geralt a wide grin, showing off her thousands of needle-like teeth, before diving back under. Unable to defend himself, Geralt was dragged into the water by his leg. He took a deep breath before he was forced under, but the only thing on Geralt's mind was whether or not Jaskier was okay.

If he got a good breath in. 

_If he was drowning_.

The world blended into a mess of vague colors as he was pulled through the shallow water, the Witcher lurching out of the pool for a weightless for a moment before his ass hits rock. He grunted out a curse at the rough landing, jolting when heard something metal hit the ground somewhere behind him. Unfortunately, he didn't get a chance to investigate before the siren launched itself at him with a hungry hiss.

Letting his training and instincts take control, he kicked out and caught her in the gut. The air in her lungs coming out in a wet snarl, the scent of iron and decay heavy on her breath. He lashed out again, grunting when her nails scratched across his calves, leaving stinging gashes in their wake. On the bright side, the binds securing his feet were cut as well, falling apart in ribbons. The next time she came at him, he wound up before landing a heavy kick right into the side of her head. He felt her skull cave before she flew headfirst into the nearest slippery wall. She sunk into the water and out of view, but Geralt doubted that would be the last he saw of her.

With danger out of the way for the moment, his keen eyes began to search his surroundings for something to get him free. They had been brought into an underwater cave, every inch of the pool covered in precious gems, metals, and antiques. He and the Bard had been deposited in the middle of a treasure hoard. "Jaskier?" Geralt grit out, staring at the mass of skeletons piled up in one of the corners in front of him. He didn't get a response and breathed deeply, using the musician's familiar scent to keep a level head.

Jaskier _couldn't_ be dead.

He focused his hearing and caught the steady thump of the Bard's heart. The relieved breath was ripped from his lungs, his body shuddering when the organ suddenly figured out that they were indeed capable of expanding. He recalled the faint sound of metal hitting the ground and his golden eyes searching for the culprit, ignoring how his wrists burned from being chafed. His gaze screeched to a halt on a two inch, gold, gem-embedded dagger lying on the ground mere centimeters from the unconscious Bard.

His eyebrows drew together in confusion even as he inched over to grab the blade, sawing at the rope that bound his hands. He's careful not to cut Jaskier, he wasn't completely sure that he wouldn't upchuck what little was in his stomach if he smelt the Bard's blood again. The minute he's free, he cuts the musician's bonds as well. He checked Jaskier for injuries, dread settling like a stone in his stomach when he realized that the man wasn't  _ breathing _ . He laid the Bard onto his back, he'd gotten some basic medical knowledge from the elderly woman who had cared for Jaskier when he'd been attacked by humans. 

He gently tipped the Bard's head back, opening his airway. He paused for a moment, wasting precious seconds, knowing what he had to do next. So he squeezed Jaskier's nose shut and dove in, breathing twice, hoping that it would work. He repeated the sequence thrice more, painfully aware of time passing. With each second that ticked by, Jaskier's chances of survival decreased. Finally, Jaskier sucked in a large breath, water spewing from his mouth before Geralt could get him onto his side. His blue eyes meet Geralt's briefly before they closed again and his breathing evened out. The Witcher picked the limp Bard up, moving him to a safe corner so he'd be out of the way.

The water was still when he turned to observe the surface, so he took the moment of calm to tuck the knife into the waistband of his underthings. The blade wasn't silver so it'd be useless against the siren, he'd have to come up with an alternative. There's a glint to his right and his gaze locked onto a circular _silver_ platter. It was around a foot and a half wide with a sharp, flat edge. It would do. He saw the water ripple and made a mad dash for the makeshift weapon, reaching it just as the siren leapt out of the water. 

He managed to get the platter up in front of him just in time to have the creature slam up against it, her deadly nails scrabbling across the shiny metal. Geralt shoved the siren back, swinging to catch her face with the flat side of the platter. Her answering shriek made the Witcher's eardrums vibrate, and she managed to catch his side with her claws. Geralt tensed when her gaze flicked over to the vulnerable Bard a moment before she sprung into action, headed straight for the easier prey. The Witcher dropped the platter in order to get both hands around her textured tail, she landed hard on her front with a cry. 

The Witcher quickly bracketed her thick tail with his thighs, throwing a hand out to blindly grope for the disregarded platter. His fingers wrap around the edge, his other hand dealing a fair amount of damage to her delicate fins by raking his own nails through the appendages. She thrashed desperately, sensing her imminent death. Geralt released her abused flesh to brace both hands on the platter before ruthlessly bringing the edge down onto the back of her neck, the metal only sinking halfway through. So he viciously ripped it out and did it again...and again...and _again_. Until the bent metal slipped from his grip, his palms coated in blood from the sharp edge digging into his pale flesh.

Heaving, he moved away from the headless corpse and toward Jaskier. He carefully picked up the Bard, smearing crimson across his sun-kissed skin, carrying him into the pool and out of the cave.

* * *

Jaskier wakes to a sore throat and a pounding headache. He groans, rolling over and promptly realizes that he could move freely. He flailed upright, wincing as the pressure inside his skull increased. He felt a chilled hand on his forehead, numbing the ache of his brain, and sighed happily. It's only when the hand drew away that he realized what he just did and to _whom_ , blushing wildly. Jaskier cleared his throat and took the hand in front of him, letting Geralt help him to his feet.

"So, what'd I miss? Anything particularly ballad worthy?" Jaskier is quick to press for details, knowing that it was still fresh in Geralt's mind despite the fact several hours had passed and it was already dark. The brute didn't answer right away, looking to be far, _far_ away at the moment and Jaskier has to repeat the question again before he finally gains Geralt's attention.

The Witcher points to his left, and Jaskier's curiosity forces him to look, immediately regretting the action when he meets the wide, cloudy eyes of the dark-haired siren. Her mouth was open unnaturally wide, fear frozen onto her delicate features, making Jaskier wonder what caused the expression. Her neck was crudely ended in black-clotted blood, the edges of the skin jagged and dangling off in some places. He swallows down vomit and has to turn away from the grotesque display.

Geralt's voice shattered through his nausea and Jaskier turned frightened eyes to the Witcher. "Don't pity her. She died because of her obsession." His voice is low and furious, eyes pinning him in place. "And what would that be?" Jaskier rasped out, hands cradled over his stomach. He watched as Geralt's expression darkened and he suddenly had a pretty good idea of what had terrified the siren so much that it stayed with her even in death.

"Taking things that weren't hers." Jaskier got the distinct feeling that Geralt wasn't talking about the piles of stolen goods in the cave, and the way he shifted closer to the Bard practically confirmed it. "What should we do about the town?" Jaskier inquired tiredly, looking down at the dark village from the top of the hill. Geralt observed the fatigued Bard for a moment, as if he were searching for something, before responding in a tone that would've sent off all sorts of red flags had the musician been more aware.

"I'll handle it."

Apparently that meant that Jaskier would sneak into town to grab Roach before slipping back out, Geralt told him to wait for him back at the hill so the Witcher could do...whatever he was planning to do. Geralt took the siren's body and detached head with him into town, refusing to answer any of Jaskier's questions as he went. Jaskier took the extra time needed to also release the other fourteen horses in the stables. When the Bard was safely on the hill, he directed his attention back to the town. Waiting for...something, he wasn't sure what exactly he was looking for.

There was a sudden burst of light so bright that Jaskier had to shield his eyes until they adjusted to the blinding orange. He squinted as the light took form, swirling around the border of the town and working its way to the center, turning everything in its destructive path to ash. It was a column of fire, alive and twisting like a hurricane. He could feel the boiling intensity of the inferno from where he was standing, and it burned like anger. The heat of fury coated the back of his throat, drying out his tongue.

By the time Geralt came back, the fire was waning and Jaskier had run out of tears to shed. He leaned his wary body heavily against Roach when the excitement of the day caught up to him, draining the remnants of his already severely depleted energy. The Witcher went straight for him, lifting him effortlessly onto the saddle, before taking the reins and leading Roach away from the burnt remainder of the previously thriving village. Jaskier was swaying as the mare trotted along, when it suddenly hit him. He became pale, a shaking hand flying up to his mouth in horror.

What had he done? What had he let Geralt _do?_ He'd just condemned an entire town to death, all because he was too tired to push the Witcher to elaborate on his revenge plot. They were all consumed in their beds as they slept, boxed in as if they were nothing more than scurrying rats. Jaskier sickeningly realized that he'd just condoned the death of not only his attackers, but the death of any innocent men, women and _children_ as well.

It was another hour of silence before Geralt spoke, his voice carefully empty of emotion. "Jaskier. Say something." The tone was enough for the Bard to conjure up enough energy for a single sentence. Spoken softly, but still a stern demand all-the-same. "You can never do that, _ever_ again." Jaskier's gaze bore into Geralt's and the Witcher nodded, turning to face forward once again. With his piece said, the Bard finally allowed himself to slump into the saddle and close his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this chapter was ridiculously long. I found it hard to write this monster, I certainly wasn't expecting it to be 6,000+ words. I hope you guys enjoy!


	10. Penny For Your Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun was just starting to rise when Geralt stirred, which was strange because he usually slept in until around mid-morning when they stayed at an Inn. He yawned, jaw stretching to reveal unnaturally sharp fangs. He debated going back to sleep, but something was niggling at him. It took him an embarrassingly long moment to realize that it was quiet, too quiet. Geralt usually woke to the light scratch of a quill on paper, but there was nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to ArtemisRaine for leaving an amazing comment in the previous chapter that seriously brightened my day! Huge thanks to all my readers who leave kudos and comments as well, my writing wouldn't be where it is today if it weren't for your guys support.

The Witcher's hot breath rhythmically fanned against Jaskier's scrunched face. One of Geralt's large, clawed hands was gently cupping the Bard's shoulder, the other hung limply at his side. The usually white fur of his arm was drenched with blood from shoving his  _ entire fist  _ into the rabid Werewolf's chest. The musician grimaced at the sharp, coppery smell, but didn't stop his soothing ministrations. Ever since the Wyvern contract, the gentle face pat had become a vital part of coaxing the feral Witcher back into his human form.

Geralt began to pull away, but Jaskier merely tightened his grip with a low scolding noise. That was until there was the telltale crack of bone, then the Bard's hand's voluntarily flew away from the wolf like he'd been burned. But instead of moving away from the poor musician, like he  _ should _ have, Geralt went through the process of shifting back into a man whilst hovering right above him. Jaskier squawked in indignant protest, throwing his hands over his face as the white fur melted off, revealing familiar pale, scarred flesh.

By the time Geralt was human again, Jaskier was bright red and spluttering incoherent insults, threats, and complaints alike. When silence followed his pointless rant, the Bard peeked through the net of his fingers, only to realize that he was shoved flush against a  _ very _ naked Witcher. The musician's throat clicked when he swallowed, his eyes dragging down the expanse of rippling muscle that was laid out above him. Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut against the barrage of images that were whipping through his guttered mind and he began to blindly shove at Geralt's chest, howling obscenities as he did so.

"Have a little shame, Geralt!" Jaskier screeched, his heart thundering in his ears. The Bard's face was burning with what was most likely an impressive flush, Jaskier prayed that the Witcher would write it off as embarrassment as opposed to arousal. The last thing he needed was the Witcher realizing that the Bard was sexually attracted to him, that would most definitely send Geralt running for the hills. The Witcher had a habit of reacting poorly when it was  _ strangers  _ advertising their intent to bed him, so who knows how he'd take  _ Jaskier's _ interest.

"What? Like you?" With a smirk, Geralt indulged the hysterical musician and rose. Jaskier spluttered as the Witcher twisted and stretched to make sure he was more or less unharmed, save the still leaking gashes on his arm. The Werewolf's ribs had caved inward and snapped when the snarling Witcher brute-forced his clenched fist through it's torso, the broken shards biting into Geralt's fur-covered flesh.

"Oh Ho HO! That was low hanging fruit, Witcher." Jaskier crooned, propping himself up with his elbows when Geralt finished his self-examination and promptly made his way over to where Roach patiently waited. The Bard's fond smile dropped into an incredulous frown when Geralt flipped one of the saddlebags open, the Witcher retrieving what looked to be his sinfully tight leather pants.

"No, absolutely not. We passed a river on the way over here, you are washing up first before you squeeze into your armor. Which I dutifully scrubbed clean the day before yesterday might I remind you." Geralt huffed, but obediently rolled the fabric into a bundle before shoving it back into the pack. The Witcher lifted his nose, nostrils flaring as he scented the air. Jaskier scrambled up off the grass when Geralt grabbed hold of Roach's reins, leading her off into a seemingly random direction.

"You better hope we don't come across any lost travelers, you'd give them quite a scare." Geralt shot him an unimpressed look, to which Jaskier aimed his most shit-eating grin at. The Witcher rolled his eyes before facing forward once again, and the Bard was only too happy to lag behind just so he could safely observe Geralt's unashamed strut. The usual routine after a successful hunt was, first and foremost, Geralt dressing himself. 

The Witcher wasn’t shy about his nudity, mind you, but Jaskier had bitched and complained about Geralt's lack of dress enough that the first thing the Witcher did after slaying the monster of the week was cover himself up. Jaskier hadn’t intended to make Geralt think that he had _ any _ reason to be ashamed of his body, but seeing the Witcher’s naked form in all it’s delicious glory made the Bard so flustered that he just ended up blurting out the first thing that popped into his head. Unfortunately, that usually meant that he ended up spouting insults and protesting about whatever it was that was making him nervous. 

Jaskier was unceremoniously snapped out of his inner monologuing when the tip of his boot snagged on a protruding tree root, a sharp pain radiating up his foot from his toes. The Bard went down with a yelp, his hands flying out instinctively to break his fall. Small rocks dug into his palms, pulling a hiss from between his clenched teeth. He startled when cool, familiar hands clamped down onto his forearms, manhandling him into sitting position.

Jaskier’s gaze stuttered over the flexing, bloodied skin that was suddenly  _ very _ close to him. His eyes wandered down the Witcher’s scarred chest, absently taking note of his impressive abs and mouth-watering V-line. He was momentarily distracted when Geralt harshly prodded at his wounded palms, the Witcher scowling darkly at the blood and dirt that was smeared over the delicate flesh.

“Geralt, that hurts.” Jaskier winced, fingers involuntarily twitching when the cuts smarted from the rough treatment. Geralt’s molten eyes snapped up from Jaskier’s hands to search his pinched face, the Witcher’s own features tightened and he immediately gentled his touch. “...sorry.” Geralt rumbled, ducking his head to continue his examination of Jaskier’s hands.

“You worry too much, they’re fine. I just need to rinse them off and put some salve on the scrapes and I’ll be right as rain in a day or so.” Jaskier frowned in consideration as a thought occurred to him. “Do we still have the green salve? Or did we use all of it already?” Geralt released the Bard’s hands, pushing to his feet before moving towards Roach. The hellish mare was still where the Witcher had left her, disinterestedly chewing on a tuft of grass. Geralt threw the pack open, digging a small tin out of the saddlebag before briskly hurrying back to Jaskier.

The Witcher twisted the lid free and scooped a large glob out onto his finger, swabbing it out onto Jaskier upturned palms. The medicine stung something fierce as it worked, the Bard gnawed on his lower lip to distract himself from the urge to pull his hands out of the Witcher’s loose grip. Thankfully, the sharp burn only lasted a minute or so before fading into a tingling warmth that soothed the pain.

Jaskier squeaked when Geralt slipped his hands under the Bard’s arms, The Witcher using the leverage to unexpectedly haul Jaskier to his feet. The movement was as exciting as it was jarring considering that the musician was practically dead weight when the Witcher decided to pick him up, sometimes Jaskier forgot just how strong Geralt was. The Bard was prompted forward by a large, cold hand on his back, leading him around dangerous spots of twisting roots.

Jaskier brightened when the river came into view, eager to wipe away the goo and grime that clung to his hands. He only got a few steps closer before Geralt’s careful hand on his chest stopped the musician dead in his tracks, the Witcher leveling him with a look that said,  _ ‘stay put’ _ . The Bard grumbled impatiently but followed Geralt’s wordless instructions, rocking back on his heels as the Witcher waded through the water, painstakingly checking for any hiding monsters. They learned to always check after the huge fiasco with a pack of drowners and a certain careless Bard.

Once the worry-wart of a Witcher was confident that nothing sinister was lurking, Geralt beckoned Jaskier over with a sharp wave of his hand. He didn’t need any more encouragement then that, a bounce in his step as he approached the riverbank. Jaskier dropped down onto his knees at the edge, sticking his hands into the chilled current and rubbing them together to dislodge the salve and dirt. He lifted them out of the water when the clotted scrapes were revealed, scrutinizing the injuries. They looked to be hours old rather than minutes, they would be completely healed the day after tomorrow at most.

He saw movement from the corner of his eye and looked up, the breath stalling in his lungs at the sight that he’s greeted with. Geralt was waist deep in the sluggishly moving river, the golden early morning light catching the water droplets on his pale form perfectly. The glistening liquid surrounds him, making it look like he was wading through diamonds. His eyes were bright and features soft, like they were when he thought no one was looking. It was serene and peaceful, something that Jaskier desperately wished he could give Geralt all the time.

His lungs protested angrily with the abuse and he was forced to suck in a large breath that was just a tad too loud, Geralt’s piercing gaze swept across the bank until his molten pools landed on Jaskier’s wide-eyed, startled form. The Witcher’s pointed stare flicked to the swords lying a few feet away before darting back to Jaskier, a clear question in his gaze. The Bard gave the tense man a reassuring smile and shook his head. He felt that speaking would break the calm atmosphere, and refused to take this away from Geralt.

He moved away from the Witcher and the water, laying on his back to stare up at the passing clouds, trying to figure out what their abstract shapes represented. He became distracted as Geralt came to mind again. Specifically, the soft look on his face, this time meant for -  _ because of _ \- Jaskier, the two of them wrapped up in each other’s embrace. He was brought out of his fanciful daydreaming by the sound of Geralt climbing out of the river, padding past the Bard to Roach’s flank.

Jaskier rolled over onto his stomach to subtly watch Geralt's flexing back as the Witcher wrestled into his leather trousers. Jaskier looked away when Geralt slipped into his black tunic, hiding his truly  _ glorious _ muscles from view. When the Witcher began the pain-staking process of putting his armor back on, Jaskier caught a glimpse of gold and scrambled to his feet in order to get a better look. His eyes went wide when he realized what _ exactly _ he was staring at.

"That - you - why do you have my dagger!?" Jaskier dramatically pointed out the small, out of place, bejeweled handle that poked out from beneath the leather flap. Geralt's brows furrowed, the Witcher stepping to the side to pull the dagger free. "This is yours? I’m not surprised." Geralt rolled his eyes after regarding the overzealously embellished knife. 

"Excuse you! That dagger was recommended to me by a lovely blacksmith; it cost quite a few coin. I thought that I'd lost it to that siren." He swiped for the knife, but was denied when Geralt lifted it away from him and out of reach. "Your  _ precious _ blacksmith swindled you. The design isn't practical and the blade isn’t even silver." Geralt pointed out, raising a brow at the Bard, a smile pulling at his lips while he expertly slashed and stabbed the blade at the open air a few times. 

Fucking showoff.

The Bard swallowed hard and wet his lips, staring down at his shifting feet until he somehow found the confidence to speak. "I didn't purchase it with your kind of monsters in mind." Geralt froze, his grip on the dagger tightening as his sharp eyes jumped to the oddly meek Bard. Jaskier shook himself, grasping for something to say that would break the sudden tension that hung between them.

“Don’t think you can get out of this mister! How did you get your meaty paws on it anyway?” The Bard interrogated, widening his stance before planting his hands on his hips. He hoped that he actually looked somewhat threatening, but, going by the amused twinkle in Geralt’s eyes, he was failing quite spectacularly. In the time it took for Jaskier to blink, the Witcher’s brows had scrunched in confusion.

“You were stripped down to your underclothes.” Jaskier flushed a bright red at the reminder and quickly realized where this particular line of questioning was going. “Where could you have possibly kept this?” Geralt held the knife away from his body between two fingers like it would bite him and stared at it warily, his gaze flicking between the weapon in question and the fidgeting Bard.

“That…that’s none of your concern!” Jaskier spluttered, making a grab for the dagger. Geralt raised a brow, swiftly moving it out of range before the musician even got within an inch of the handle. Jaskier’s arms pinwheeled, trying to keep from face planting twice that day. He huffed and glared at Geralt, who stared back innocently, using his  _ expensive _ dagger to pick the dirt out from under his  _ disgusting _ nail beds.

“Tell me where you had it concealed and I'll give it back.” The Witcher shrugged like answering that loaded question was something simple, instead of crumbling under Geralt’s bullying, Jaskier lunged for the blade a second time. The Witcher grunted when Jaskier slammed into him, the Bard pushed up on his tiptoes to reach for the dagger. Geralt, who had quickly recovered from the surprise of having Jaskier’s full bodyweight thrown at him, lifted the blade above their heads like the asshole he was. Unfortunately for Geralt, Jaskier was gangly and, therefore, had the longer reach. 

Jaskier stretched, straining against Geralt’s front. The Witcher narrowed his eyes at the Bard’s determined scowl, struggling to keep the knife out of Jaskier’s general vicinity. The musician decided to play dirty, sneaking a foot behind one of Geralt’s. The Witcher realized just what the Bard was trying to pull a moment too late, the Bard bodily shoving the Witcher until he tripped. With his free hand, Geralt grabbed a fistful of Jaskier’s shirt, dragging the Bard down with him. The Witcher took the brunt of the impact, and Jaskier scrambled up onto his knees over the dazed Witcher, using his legs to keep the bigger man pinned.

“What are you, five!?” Jaskier snarled, swatting Geralt’s unoccupied hand away as he tried to pry the dagger out of the Witcher’s iron grip. Geralt’s answer to the musician’s incredulous demand was a wide smile that was all feral glee, his eyes bright as they grappled. The Witcher’s heels sunk into the dirt, Geralt wildly trying to buck Jaskier off. The Bard stubbornly remained in place using sheer force of will, eager anticipation surging through his veins when his stretching fingers brushed against a skin-warmed, gold handle.

*** * ***

The sun was just starting to rise when Geralt stirred, which was strange because he usually slept in until around mid-morning when they stayed at an Inn. He yawned, jaw stretching to reveal unnaturally sharp fangs. He debated going back to sleep, but something was niggling at him. It took him an embarrassingly long moment to realize that it was quiet, too quiet. Geralt usually woke to the light scratch of a quill on paper, but there was nothing.

His eyes snapped open and he lurched upright, confirming that he was indeed alone in the room. He pressed a hand onto Jaskier’s side of the bed, lips peeling back when the cool temperature of the sheets registered. The Bard had been gone for quite some time already; Geralt could feel the panic bubbling up his throat. He braced the hand more firmly against the mattress, using the limb to launch himself off the bed.

As soon as his feet hit the floor, he was crossing the room to unbuckle his pack. He blindly picked some clothes, hastily wrestling into the tight garments. His gaze slid over to his swords, which he’d propped up in the wall beside the bed, well within reach should he have suddenly needed them. He shoved his feet into his boots, efficiently lacing them up before he grabbed both blades and shouldered out the door, expression thunderous and he stalked down the hall.

The easy atmosphere downstairs clouded with suffocating tension as soon as he stormed into view, patrons and staff alike giving him a wide berth. Geralt’s scorching gaze swept over the room before he adjusted his course to approach the innkeeper's wife, who was at the bar cleaning empty tankards. She was the only one who wasn’t alarmed by his dark mood, merely watching him curiously. She set both the cup and dishrag aside when he came to a stop in front of her, looming despite the barrier between them.

“The Bard.” He didn’t have to elaborate, during a brief break between songs the night before, Jaskier had told him that he was the first musician to pass through in weeks. The innkeeper’s wife blinked, recognition sparking in her kind chocolate brown eyes. “Oh, yeah. He mentioned that ya might come down here lookin’ like a murderer. He said to tell ya that he was goin’ to the market, somethin’ about writing supplies?” He grunted in thanks and made a beeline to the door, pushing out into the crisp morning air. He tipped his head back and inhaled deeply, filtering through the dozens of scents until he was able to pick out spruce and rain.

He started off after the scent, chasing the source. He needed to see him, needed to see him whole and well and  _ smiling _ . Needed it like he’d never needed anything before, his throat closing up at the thought of finding him in any other state. Thankfully, there weren’t very many people in the market yet, there were even vendors who were still setting up. Even if there had been a sizable crowd, he was locked onto Jaskier’s scent like a bloodhound.

He turned down another sparsely occupied street and caught sight of a familiar blue outfit, his pace picking up until he was running toward the preoccupied musician at full-tilt. The man who owned the stall spared him a glance before violently double-taking, his face draining of color when he realized that Geralt was indeed coming right at them. As if sensing the vendor's rising panic, Jaskier’s head came up from his examination of the goods. He saw that the man was staring off to the side and followed his terrified stare to the Witcher.

Jaskier’s brilliant blue eyes landed on Geralt and his whole  _ being _ brightened at the sight of the approaching Witcher, lips curling into a welcoming smile that had Geralt’s ribs tightening. He skid to a graceful halt beside the jolly Bard, his dusty boots leaving scuff marks in the packed dirt. “Good morning, sleepyhead.” Jaskier teased, reaching out to pinch and gently tug a lock of Geralt’s unruly white hair. The Witcher found he didn’t mind the playful action, and he shifted closer to the Bard so he could breathe in his soothing scent.

“You could’ve left a note.” Geralt grumbled, smothering the last of his fear beneath rain and spruce. The Bard’s oddly keen eyes seemed to read what he wasn’t able to say on his face, because his smile softened into something warm and fond. “I could do that, or I could just wake you up and coerce you into being my pack mule for the day.” Despite the light tone, the musician was clearly asking for permission to do so. 

His skin prickled with the knowledge that they were being watched by too many eyes, his throat closed up as his distrustful gaze raked over the humans that shamelessly observed their exchange. He managed to force a rough sound of agreement through gritted teeth, and Jaskier’s answering grin was as bright as the sun. “Excellent! Here, carry this will you? My arms are tired.” Jaskier turned to the two bags that he’d deposited on the ground beside him, handing them off to Geralt. The Witcher gratefully took the subtle invitation to stay, smoothly transferring both bags to one hand so he was free to grab his sword with the other if the need arose.

“I just need a couple more things then we can be out of here before the mid-morning rush arrives.” Jaskier assures, beckoning the Witcher to follow. Geralt blinks, taken off guard by the considerate gesture. His body moves all on its own when Jaskier starts walking, unwilling to let the Bard stray too far. “Oh, those are  _ stunning _ .” Jaskier sighed and Geralt snapped back to himself at the almost wistful sound, unsure how to feel about the complicated expression the musician was currently wearing.

The eccentric Bard had stopped in front of a jeweler, face practically shoved against the table he was leaning in so close. Geralt stepped forward and frowned at the display of various pairs of earrings that Jaskier was enamored with, scoffing at the thought of the musician with his ears pierced. Knowing him, he’d get something flashy and useless, ultimately having one or both of them torn out by either bandits or a monster.

“I think you would look lovely with earrings, Geralt.” The Witcher’s eyes widened, caught completely off guard by the innocent statement as his gaze whipped back to Jaskier, who was cheerfully holding up a pair of gold dangling tassels to either side of Geralt’s head. He collected himself and gave the grinning Bard a flat look, spinning on his heel to march away, leaving Jaskier to practically throw the earrings back at the vendor and scramble after him.

Jaskier easily caught up, surpassing him with a wide smile, practically skipping through the dirt paths of the market. Geralt lets the brightly dressed man lead for a while, giving input when prompted, but otherwise just lets the Bard do the haggling. Standing ominously behind his lithe frame, like a glaring thundercloud, until the greedy vendor caved. They circled around, nearing where they had both entered when he noticed a bright flash of color to his left, drawing his eyes.

Folded neatly on a table, surrounded by several other colors and sizes, was a blood red cloak. He stopped, watching Jaskier’s back until he halted in front of another vendor. Once the Bard appeared thoroughly distracted by whatever he’d found, Geralt approached the stall that’d caught his eye. He hesitantly reached a hand out, gently grasping the fabric and rubbing it between his fingers curiously. It was soft velvet on the inside, but thicker and dense on the outside, perfect for colder weather or rain. Geralt  _ had _ been forced to share his own dark cloak with the vibrant Bard, leaving him to face the harsh elements in nothing but his armor, and the bright crimson of the cloak  _ would _ compliment Jaskier’s blue eyes.

On a whim, he decided to purchase the fabric. He tucked away and hastily returned to Jaskier’s side before the Bard could even realize that he was gone in the first place. “Geralt, do you want to try pickled onions or herring?” Jaskier asked distractedly, clearly debating between the two jars he was holding. Geralt’s nose wrinkled in distaste at the prospect of eating either, but he humored the uncertain Bard. “Herring.”

Jaskier traded his coin for the jar and began to lead the two of them back to the Inn just as people began flooding the market. Once in their room, the Bard excitedly began to unpack his prizes, talking a mile a minute as he did. He told Geralt about prices, conversation, and why he bought a particular object. It was when Jaskier went quiet that Geralt finally acknowledged the Bard, assuring his travel companion that he was - in fact - listening.

“What else, Jaskier? That was only half your trip.” It was a clear invitation to continue speaking and the Bard took it with a grin, his endless babble starting up again. His voice flowed over Geralt, calming the Witcher in a way nothing else could. The low tone helped him relax, erasing the last of the panic from earlier that morning.

“And, uh…this is for you.” Geralt looked up from where he was polishing his swords, carefully taking the two boxes Jaskier was holding out to him. The Witcher hesitated before pulling the tie loose and opening the lid, he didn’t know what he expected but it certainly wasn’t this. Lying innocently on the plush filling was a stunning silver comb, golden designs weaving around the edges in a tantalizing display. 

He picked up the second box and opened it, more quickly this time, and was met with a broach. He shoved down the memories of the golden trinket on his steel blade, not allowing that time to ruin Jaskier’s gift. It was also silver, shaped carefully into a lark, one blue gem shimmering in the sunlight. The bird was placed within a tangle of wires that made up the nest surrounding it. It was very…Jaskier. 

“Your silver sword was looking kind of boring. With your other one having that pretty broach and all. And I figured, why not?” The Bard shrugged, sharp eyes watching Geralt as the Witcher swiftly secured it onto the hilt of his second blade. Jaskier was red in the face, but smiled warmly at him when the Bard noticed his stare.

“I also have something for you.” Geralt mumbled, he didn't dare glance at the Bard, instead occupying himself with collecting the folded cloak and handing it to Jaskier. There’s a moment of silence that had his hands clenching into tight fists, but the suffocating quiet is broken by a loud squeal of delight that startled him into looking up. The musician was rubbing his face against the fabric with a content grin, and the pressure in his chest eased at the sight.

“This is amazing, Geralt. Thank you!” He was so obviously sincere that all Geralt could do was silently nod. He watched Jaskier try on the cloak, the Bard using the full body mirror in the room to see how it fit. Of course, Geralt vaguely knew that it would compliment the musician, but wasn’t prepared for just  _ how _ good Jaskier looked when he actually put it on. Jaskier twirled around, cloak flaring out behind him as he did, and opened his arms, inviting Geralt’s scrutiny. “How do I look?”

“It looks…nice.” Geralt carefully kept his thoughts off his face, but Jaskier didn’t take offense to his faux passiveness about the Bard’s appearance. The musician just nodded along with his assessment like he agreed, still twisting and turning about to look at his cloaked form from all angles.

And if Jaskier slept with the cloak wrapped around him that night, Geralt quietly enjoying their combined scents as the world darkened around them, no one had to know.


	11. Destiny Is The Push Of Our Instincts (To The Pull Of Our Purpose)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Witcher’s gaze was drawn back to the treeline every time he heard even the slightest rustle, hoping to lay eyes on Jaskier. After what felt like an eternity, the Bard emerged from the dense foliage to Geralt’s left.
> 
> The Witcher attentively scanned the musician from his hair to his boots, the tight knot of worry in his stomach loosening when he came to the conclusion that Jaskier was still very much in one piece. The wind shifted and Geralt’s nose twitched when the sweet aroma of some sort of fruit wafted by, the Witcher stumped by the seemingly random scent until his curious gaze paused on Jaskier’s fingers, the tips stained with purple juice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have just one thing to say, and it’s that these two are idiots.

"What are you doing?" Geralt’s tone was harsh, his arms crossed with a constipated look gracing his chiseled features. Jaskier, who was clumsily climbing a large oak, ignored the Witcher in favor of concentrating on not falling. His tongue stuck out of his mouth quite comically as he grabbed the next branch above him in order to pull himself even higher. The Bard had spotted a shiny item woven into a bird nest towards the top of the thirty-foot-tall tree. 

He was hoping it was some kind of expensive jewelry and decided that it couldn't hurt to check it out. First chance he got, he crept away from the extremely irritated Witcher, and scrambled up the tree. Though, he'd only gotten about halfway up when Geralt noticed his absence and came looking. At least the Witcher didn't just cut his losses and leave Jaskier there, Geralt had been in a terrible mood since they began the trip.

When he was positive that the Bard wasn't looking, Geralt relaxed his tense stance and ran a hand down his face in exasperation. He knew that the Bard had his idiotic moments, but this was a new low, even for him. Losing his already short patience with the human, Geralt snapped. "Would you get down from there!" Jaskier startled at the shouted words and his foot missed the branch, slipping against the bark. Jaskier yelped in distress, but caught himself on another branch, hooking his arms over the wood so that he wouldn't fall further. His legs dangled uselessly, scrabbling against the rough bark for some sort foothold.

"Really?!" Jaskier squawked indignantly, aiming a heated glare down at the White Wolf, only to stop short. The Witcher was standing directly below him, feet shoulder width apart and knees slightly bent as if bracing for something. It took Jaskier an embarrassing amount of time to realize that Geralt had been prepared to catch him. Glancing longingly back up the large tree towards the empty bird nest and back down at Geralt's glowering face, Jaskier sighed as climbing the tree suddenly didn't seem like as great an idea as it did before. He proceeded to abandon his mission, beginning the tedious trek back down.

By the time his feet met solid ground, Geralt had lost interest in watching over the musician and had wandered back to Roach's side. He was meticulously organizing his saddlebag when Jaskier joined him, the Bard peeked over one of Geralt's broad shoulders and caught a glimpse of several different colored potions. The Witcher swiftly snapped the leather bag shut, blocking his view of the items contained within. One, however, had stood out against the others. It was the milky white, luminescent potion. Jaskier knew that the Witcher used the insidiously shimmering liquid to turn him into the Wolf. Though, Geralt absolutely refused to give him any more information on the intriguing concoction.

"Are you finished with making a fool of yourself?" Geralt grumbled, pushing to his feet to reattach the bag to the saddle. Jaskier gaped like a fish out of water as the Witcher efficiently fiddled with the buckles. He tugged on it a few times and, seemingly satisfied, turned back to Jaskier with a raised eyebrow and an almost imperceptible quirk of his lips. Oh, so the Witcher was feeling _mischievous_ . Good thing Jaskier knew exactly what to do to win the unstated battle, he had _years_ of experience in being a little shit over his travel companion.

"Me? A fool? I was just trying to entertain myself because _someone_ is being terrible company." Jaskier returned, checking his nails cheekily as he waited for a response. Geralt didn't disappoint. "You're being ridiculous." The Witcher growled, brows furrowing at Jaskier's implication. The Bard fought the urge to smile, biting the inside of his cheek. The Witcher was just _so easy_. "Oh really?" The shameless musician put a great deal of doubt into his voice. "So you're not?"

"No." But the Witcher was slowly beginning to sound unsure of himself in the face of Jaskier's persistence. The Bard caught the slight crease to his brow, giving away Geralt's uncertainty. And this, like the tree climbing, was suddenly ruined by the Witcher. Or, more accurately, Jaskier's inability to hurt him. Geralt's face went from vulnerable to blank when he noticed Jaskier's gaze; something on his face must have upset the Witcher because his lips twisted into a sneer.

"I jest, you beast." Jaskier plastered a wide smile onto his face, bravely giving Geralt's armored midsection a hearty smack with the back of his hand. The pain was quick and biting as it radiated up his arm, making him gnash his teeth together. "You make a lovely travel companion." His voice was strained, but Geralt either didn't notice or didn't care, because the Witcher merely hummed and turned away to mount Roach. Jaskier took that time to grab his abused hand and massage it, mumbling apologies to his treasured limb as he did.

He wandered alongside Geralt, mostly humming to himself and strumming his lute. But every so often, something would catch his attention and his eyes would wander back to the riding Witcher next to him. During a break in the trees, the sun would hit the profile of Geralt _just right_ and the silver studs in his ears would glint pleasingly, drawing Jaskier's gaze to the man. It would take a few more days of riding for the Bard to learn to ignore the flash of light out of the corner of his eye, but for now, he just stared freely.

It was something that Jaskier had said in passing, as sort of a half-joke, but Geralt seemed to have taken the comment as a suggestion and went through the painstaking process of getting his ears pierced. When the Bard questioned the new assets, Geralt completely ignored the original question, grunting something about the silver studs he chose being practical in a battle environment. Jaskier knew that he wouldn't get anything more juicy out of the tight-lipped Witcher and let the topic go, for now at least.

The two of them had gotten a letter from the town of Gulet, which happened to be seven days away, asking after the White Wolf. Apparently there was a Kikimore tearing through the town and they were desperate enough to call upon a Witcher. In theory, Jaskier was fully prepared and willing to travel that long of a distance. But the trip happened to be much easier said than done.

*** * ***

Two days in and Jaskier was already done with this whole trip, he just wanted to lay down and sleep for a few hundred years. His eyes slid to Geralt’s back, the brooding Witcher riding a good ten feet ahead of him. They had yet to speak to one another, travelling in silence. All because Geralt had lost his fucking shit after Jaskier had wandered off the path for the fourth time in under an hour, the Witcher had harshly grabbed the back of his doublet and spun the Bard to get into his face with a pissed-off snarl.

Jaskier’s surprise at the rough treatment quickly morphed into anger when Geralt immediately began to verbally tear into him, the argument escalating when Jaskier raised his own voice. Before he knew it, they were both shouting, throwing past mistakes into each other’s faces. The tipping point was when Geralt ruthlessly brought up the mess of a Siren contract from _weeks_ ago, claiming that they would’ve been able to pass through the fucked-up town if Jaskier had exercised self-restraint and kept his nose out of everybody else’s business.

Jaskier’s vision flashed red at the thoughtless declaration, his stomach dropping to lie at his feet. And, in an ill-timed fit of blind rage, the Bard wound his arm back and swung. Jaskier felt a surge of vindictive pride when his knuckles connected with the Witcher’s jaw, the blow forced Geralt’s head to jerk to the left. It was silent save for their panting for a moment, the Witcher staring at the musician’s rapidly paling features with wide eyes. 

The wounded shock on Geralt’s face didn’t stay for long, his features twisting with animalistic rage. “Wait, Geralt, I’m sor-” Jaskier cut himself off, backpedaling when the Witcher lunged for him. He flinched when Geralt’s hand lashed out to grab a tight fistful of the Bard’s shirt, the embroidered fabric ripping when the Witcher hauled Jaskier forward. An ice cold chill rattled down the Bard’s spine when Geralt’s fist cocked back with intent, a punch thrown by Geralt could potentially cave his head in. Quite suddenly, the Bard found it very hard to breathe, opting to slam his eyelids closed so he wouldn’t have to watch the violence that was about to unfold.

It took a solid minute of nothing before Jaskier found the courage to hesitantly open his eyes, cautiously taking in his surroundings. Geralt’s face was completely void of emotion, but his volcanic eyes expressed _betrayal_. Jaskier’s gaze dropped, his shaky breaths beginning to even out into something calmer when he realized that the hand that wasn’t holding his trembling form upright, hung limply at the Witcher’s side. Geralt’s grip on his torn clothes loosened and Jaskier dropped down onto his ass when his weak knees gave out from under him.

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier’s voice wobbled, something wet dripping off the musician’s chin. He raised his trembling fingers to investigate, numbly tracing the drying trail back up to his left eye, distantly registering that he was crying. He wiped at his burning eyes with shaking hands, but the tears wouldn’t stop. Jaskier smothered his involuntary sniffles and hiccups the best he could, miserably curling into himself. Geralt was probably right anyway. The town’s occupants hadn’t shown any signs of wanting them to be anything other than on their way until Jaskier stupidly went snooping.

Minutes or hours later, Jaskier found the strength to raise his head. His red-rimmed eyes immediately found Geralt, who was standing next to Roach. Everything about his posture - from the defeated slump of his shoulders to his submissively bowed head - screamed resignation. Jaskier felt a sharp twist of worry for the Witcher, but the hollow emotion was swiftly stomped out by a crippling wave of guilt. _He_ had done that to Geralt, the fact made his sore eyes burn anew.

He pressed his lips into a thin line, swallowing down the lump of emotion that threatened to choke him. Jaskier carefully stood on unsteady legs, his fear - fear of what he’d done to his _best friend_ \- writhing in his chest like a living beast. He spared the Witcher a second glance, his gaze lingering on Geralt’s turned back. Though Jaskier was sure the Witcher could sense his burning stare, Geralt ignored it in favor of stroking Roach’s neck. The blatant disregard of his presence only proved to solidify his resolve to distance himself from the Witcher, to give Geralt the space he so obviously needed.

That night, Jaskier politely refused Geralt’s timid offer of roasted rabbit, opting to nibble on some bread he had squirreled away instead. He hadn’t left the previous town anticipating that something even remotely close to _this_ would happen, so he only had enough reserves to maybe last him two days or so. Still, he ate the distressingly small portion without complaint before dutifully setting up his bedroll on the other side of the fire, opposite of where Geralt had set up, ignoring the empty space the size of Jaskier’s mat in-between the fire and Geralt’s own bedroll.

*** * ***

Geralt stared up at the dark sky, listening to Jaskier’s even breaths. For the second night in a row, the Bard had put the crackling fire between them. The hungry flames had burned down to nothing more than smoldering embers now, and the horizon was starting to lighten as daybreak drew ever closer. Geralt shifted, attempting to get comfortable for what had to be the hundredth time since he’d initially laid down. It seemed that no matter what he did, sleep continued to elude him.

Geralt’s flinched when he accidentally inhaled too deeply, the sour scent of Jaskier’s fear reminding him of why he was awake in the first place. Every time he closed his eyes, he visualized their dispute with vivid clarity. He was a passenger in his own body, watching it recreate the scene. And without the haze of anger blinding him, he could pinpoint the exact moment when Jaskier’s fury had turned into terror.

He could do nothing but watch that first droplet of water race down the musician’s flushed cheek on repeat. The soft, broken apology the Bard had uttered echoed in his ears. He despised himself for the fact that he’d been too preoccupied with his own rage to realize just how much damage he’d done by even _entertaining_ the idea of following through with the threat that his raised hand implied. And when he looked into Jaskier’s wide, wet eyes...a _monster_ was reflected back at him.

Geralt ran a hand over his worn face, gaze dragging over to the broach that adorned his iron sword. A reminder to never get attached, and he’d gone and done just that. The Witcher huffed out a frustrated breath, resigning himself to yet another sleepless night. He heaved himself out from under his furs, careful to not rouse the Bard from his peaceful slumber with his activity. Geralt started his usual routine, packing away his bedroll and digging out a simple breakfast of an apple and a few strips of dried meat to appease his empty stomach.

Jaskier awoke with a jerk around two hours later, the Bard violently scrambling off of his bedroll. The musician’s wild blue eyes raked over their bare campsite with something akin to panic. Geralt was already armed, sword clenched tight in his white-knuckle grip as he searched the immediate area for what could’ve spooked the musician, cautiously backing his way to Jaskier. A soft noise from behind him froze Geralt in place. He let the sword go limp at his side before slowly turning to face the nervous musician, Jaskier’s eyes were darting from somewhere around Geralt’s chin to the glinting blade still held in his loose grasp.

“I’m gonna…go use the _uh_ , bathroom.” Jaskier mumbled at the ground before moving to the left, careful not to put his vulnerable back to Geralt. The Witcher watched him go and, once the Bard was out of view, Geralt threw his sword down at the ground. His quivering hands flying up to clutch at his hair because of that fucking _scent_ , it was sour and suffocating. The smell drove him mad with guilt, with horror and anger and _grief_ . He felt as if something between them had _broken,_ and he didn’t know how to mend it. Or if he even could.

It was painful. It hurt to see Jaskier look at him crestfallen or frightened. Didn’t he _know?_ How could he _not_ know? Geralt would sooner run himself through with his own silver blade than harm Jaskier. Except...that wasn’t quite true, was it? He had already destroyed the Bard, with his cruel words that cut just as deep as his sharpest blade. He released his rumpled mane, resigning himself to giving Jaskier his space. 

He patiently waited for the musician to return, busying himself with kicking dirt onto the makeshift fire pit. He’d forgone doing so earlier for fear of waking Jaskier, the events that’d just transpired confirmed that he definitely would’ve received a negative reaction if he had been caught mere feet from the sleeping Bard. The Witcher’s gaze was drawn back to the treeline every time he heard even the slightest rustle, hoping to lay eyes on Jaskier. After what felt like an eternity, the Bard emerged from the dense foliage to Geralt’s left.

The Witcher attentively scanned the musician from his hair to his boots, the tight knot of worry in his stomach loosening when he came to the sound conclusion that Jaskier was still very much in one piece. The wind shifted and Geralt’s nose twitched when the sweet aroma of some sort of fruit wafted by, the Witcher stumped by the seemingly random scent until his curious gaze paused on Jaskier’s fingers, the tips stained with dark purple juice.

*** * ***

The fifth day into the journey, Jaskier wasn’t faring very well. Other than the fact that he and Geralt _still_ weren’t talking, his stomach had also started giving him grief. The traitorous organ cramped and rolled threateningly, forcing him to swallow down bile more times than he could count. He always found his body’s reaction to hunger kind of contradictory seeing as he got nauseous if his stomach was empty, which wasn’t helpful in the least.

He’d ran out of rations yesterday afternoon and had been going on without since, and the relentless pace Geralt had them moving at didn’t exactly help his discomfort any. Though, he wasn’t about to ask the glowering Witcher to stop for a break, he would go until he couldn’t walk anymore and even then still insist that he could continue. Every time he had even so much as _considered_ mentioning a brief respite from their grueling march, a bubble of panic would well up in the back of his throat.

Geralt was clearly furious with him, and rightfully so too. The Bard had fucking _hit_ him, just because the Witcher had told Jaskier a truth that he didn’t like. As a result, the musician hadn’t been able to let go of the crippling fear that Geralt would just up and leave him in the night. He’d been petrified, waking up that morning only to find their camp empty of Geralt’s belongings. For a split second, it felt as if something in him had shriveled up and died.

But, for whatever reason, the Witcher had stayed in his company another night. Jaskier was embarrassed to admit that a small sound of relief escaped, and - of course - Geralt heard it. The Witcher had turned, sword clenched within the tight circle of his fingers. Jaskier was stupefied by the blade’s presence until it dawned on him that Geralt might’ve been in the middle of practice when he’d had his little freak-out. The Witcher liked to swing his swords around sometimes, meticulously running through the defensive and offensive maneuvers that’d been drilled into him since boyhood.

Jaskier was forced to a reluctant stop when his bowels trembled, making his knees weak as pressure built up in his rectum. Without a second thought, he sprinted off into the woods, not bothering to explain what was happening to Geralt and hoping that the Witcher was too stubborn to follow. He barely got his trousers down before it felt like his entire lower half exploded, the excruciating pressure subsiding as he emptied himself.

After a frankly ridiculous amount of time he pitifully made his way back to the road, surprised to see that Geralt had dismounted, standing next to Roach a few yards from where Jaskier came out. The Witcher was staring off into the brush where he had disappeared, muscles coiled tight. The Bard felt the breeze change, putting him upwind, and watched as Geralt inhaled deeply before turning to face him. Jaskier couldn't even try to read whatever emotion crossed the Witcher’s features, he was too far away and the lapse in control was quickly corrected.

Not wanting to make Geralt more uncomfortable, Jaskier patiently waited for him to climb atop the saddle and get Roach moving before following the Witcher and his steed at a moderate distance. Thankfully, his insides had finally settled down some, but he had no such luck with the sharp, cramping pain that stubbornly lingered in his gut. He figured that the problem wasn’t hunger but rather something bad he ate, though the Bard couldn’t decide what it could’ve been.

The musician had to suppress a relieved groan when Geralt finally brought their journey to a halt for the night, the Witcher dismounting Roach in favor of wandering off into the trees in search of a campsite that was close to the road while still remaining hidden from immediate view. Geralt returned to fetch the mare and Bard after he’d found a spot that checked all the necessary boxes.

Jaskier shrugged his bag off his aching back, muscles protesting hotly with the movement. His body wasn’t used to carrying the extra weight seeing as Roach usually had the pack secured to her saddle, but the Bard had taken it for himself after their argument as a sort of self-punishment. Jaskier obediently laid out his mat before practically collapsing on top of it, the pain steadily creeping up to unbearable levels.

He listened to Geralt’s soft steps, the light crunch of his boots against the grass oddly soothing. If he concentrated hard enough, he could faintly hear the Witcher’s even breaths. The Bard shivered roughly, frowning at the sudden chill in his bones. With a quiet exhale of exasperation, he levered himself upright to blindly grope for his pack. He paused, momentarily distracted by the crackling fire that'd been set up.

It was on the wrong side.

Sure enough, when Jaskier warily turned his attention to the left of his bedroll, Geralt’s own - currently empty - mat was laid out beside the Bard’s. He blinked, rubbed his eyes. Jaskier’s lips parted in disbelief when the sight didn’t magically disappear like he half expected it to, the bedroll was still right next to his. Was Geralt trying to say that he forgave him? Hope welled up in his chest, and a smile flickered across his face for the first time in days.

With a lighter heart, the Bard turned back to his previous task, digging out his red cloak. He haphazardly threw it around his shoulders, burrowing into its warmth. Realizing that he could no longer hear Geralt, the musician cast a curious glance around the camp. Roach was idly munching away at a patch of grass, and Geralt’s bag of potions was placed atop his bedroll. The Witcher had probably gone out to catch dinner, the thought of food had the Bard’s stomach churning.

He ignored it in favor of flopping rather inelegantly back onto his plush mat. After a moment or two of shivering, Jaskier conceded and inched closer to the fire. He wondered when it’d gotten so cold, it was the middle of summer after all. The Bard’s gaze slid over to the swathe of furs that covered Geralt’s bedroll, considering the pro’s and con’s of snagging one of his. Geralt was a Witcher after all. 

Jaskier counted five thick furs and subsequently caved. His hand shot out of his bundle of blankets to grab the top one, the bag of potions rattling as he dragged the warm bundle closer. The musician took a moment to right the precious sack of bottles before going back to his initial mission. Geralt’s scent of leather and bonfire smoke enveloped him as soon as the fur was situated over his quaking form, and Jaskier let the familiar smell settle him.

He must have drifted off, cause the next time he woke it was nearly pitch black. He squinted against the darkness, just able to make out the soft embers of what remained of their fire. He rolled over, gazing at the slightly darker shadow of Geralt, Jaskier could tell that he still had one of the Witcher’s confiscated furs because Geralt’s scent was still thick around him. He scratched his chin, eyes half-lidded with sleep as he pondered what could’ve pulled him from his slumber. 

He contemplated waking the Witcher, just in case, but his sluggish thoughts were dragged to a shrieking halt when his stomach abruptly lurched. The back of his throat burned with acidic bile, prompting the Bard to hurriedly throw his covers back and scramble out of the cocoon of warmth. He only got a few feet away from his bedroll before vomit was pushing up his esophagus, splattering onto the ground with a wet sound that had Jaskier shuddering in disgust.

*** * ***

Geralt snapped awake to the sound of retching, his eyes jerking over to the source of the sound before they even had time to properly adjust. Jaskier was hunched over, one hand on his stomach while the other was pressed against the nearest tree for support. The Witcher’s brows furrowed at the weird, sickeningly sweet scent that was overpowering the Bard’s usual smell of rainwater and tree bark. There was something else too, another scent that was layered under all of it and it took him a moment to recognize it.

Blood.

He wildly clawed his way out from under the furs, springing to his feet. He was at the musician’s side in four leaping steps, his hand tentatively reaching out to settle onto one of Jaskier’s quaking shoulders. His heart in his throat, he gently turned the Bard to face him. He could pinpoint the ink black of blood almost immediately, the dark liquid dripping from Jaskier’s parted lips. The musician was sucking in shallow breaths, like he was struggling to breathe.

“Something’s wrong.” Jaskier’s voice shook, and Geralt crowded closer in response to the tremble of fear in the Bard’s words. He lifted a hand to feel at the musician’s forehead, gritting his teeth at the fevered heat that radiated off Jaskier’s clammy skin. “Geralt...Geralt, the world is spinning.” The Witcher didn’t even get a chance to react to the alarming statement before the Bard’s eyes were rolling back. Jaskier’s legs folded underneath him, the unconscious musician crumpling into Geralt’s ready arms.

“Fuck.” He snarled, stretching one scarred hand across the musician’s shoulders, the other reaching down to curl under Jaskier’s knees. He lifted the Bard’s dead weight, storming back to their bedrolls to deposit Jaskier’s onto his mat. He pulled it out, further away from the fire pit, knowing that he needed to keep the fever down. Geralt took off all but one thin blanket and situated the remaining fabric around the musician’s shivering form, tucking Jaskier in with trembling hands. He listened to each beat of the Bard’s racing heart, unsure of what he would do if it were to stop.

He shook himself, spiraling into panic wouldn’t help him find out what was wrong with his friend. The Witcher leaned to the side, grabbing two logs from the pile he’d stacked beside their mats. He hastily tossed the chunks of splintered wood onto the red hot embers before lighting the fire anew with Igni, bathing their camp in a circle of orange light. Geralt had to blink a few times, his eyes adapting to the change in brightness within a second or so.

Now that he had sufficient light, he shifted to grab his bag of potions. He flipped the buckle open, methodically rifling through the contents. He retrieved an empty vial and a bottle of colorless liquid, placing the bottle aside for the moment so he had a free hand. He bent over Jaskier’s listless body, extending his hand to drag his pointer finger over the Bard’s lower lip to collect the blood that stained it. 

When the digit was sufficiently coated, he wiped it against the rim of the vial. He then grabbed and uncapped the limpid bottle, filling the vial a quarter of the way with the translucent sustenance. He shoved a cork into the mouth of the vial before shaking it, mixing the blood with the potion. The Witcher swallowed thickly when the solution turned a lurid yellow, side-eyeing the Bard with a troubled frown.

“Poison?” He bared his teeth at the vial, displeased with the results. It was better than some sort of mystery illness, but not by much. First, he had to identify the type of poison it was, then he’d know if he could handle making the antidote himself or if he needed to get them to a Healer. He pressed his lips into a thin line, mentally flipping through everything he’d seen the Bard consume within the last few days.

Wait.

Just two days ago Jaskier had wandered off into the woods, returning a good fifteen or so minutes later with berry juice covering his fingers. Whatever he ate was the most likely culprit, but he hadn’t seen the fruit so he was still pretty much at square one. He scowled at the fire, frustrated with the distressing lack of information. The Bard whimpered, immediately drawing his undivided attention. “Jaskier.” He tested, shifting closer when the musician muttered something under his breath.

“Jaskier-” He was cut off when the Bard cried out, twisting within the confines of his bedroll like a man possessed. Geralt was at a loss as to what to do until he heard a wet, choking sound. His own breath stalled in his lungs, hands darting out to turn the Bard onto his side so he could expel whatever was plugging up his airway. There was more blood mixed in with the bile then before, the coppery scent had his instincts thrashing and raging for control.

“Geralt, Geralt it _hurts.”_ Jaskier weakly clutched at the hand that was spread over the musician’s heaving chest, the Witcher dutifully keeping the writhing Bard from slumping into his own puddle of sick face-first. Geralt’s throat tightened at Jaskier’s pained confession, shuffling closer so he could press his nose into the Bard’s hair. He sucked in a deep breath, letting the syrupy scent of the illness wash over him. The decision was practically made for him, he didn’t know what type of berry Jaskier ate, so he couldn’t help him.

“We’re leaving.” The Witcher growled, tightening his grip on the musician for a moment before reluctantly shifting away. He grabbed the extra furs from his own mat, propping them behind Jaskier’s back so the musician would remain on his side. Geralt made quick work of the camp, keeping one eye on the Bard all-the-while. The moment he finished saddling Roach, he was back at Jaskier’s side. The Witcher carefully lifted the Bard, propping the musician against his hip as if he were a young child. 

The placement left Geralt with a free hand, which he used to get them both onto Roach’s back. He positioned Jaskier in front of him, one of Geralt’s hands around the Bard’s waist to keep him from slipping off while the other held the reins, urging Roach to go faster. The musician was quickly taken by delirium within the hour, muttering gibberish under his breath and even sobbing at times, practically inconsolable. 

_“Pls don lev me_.” He cried softly, weakly clinging to the Witcher’s hand across his sternum. Geralt frowned, but Jaskier must have seen it because he began to wail even louder and nothing Geralt did seemed to be able to soothe him. _“M’ srry_.” He groaned, pushing closer to the Witcher, almost as if he were trying to climb into him. 

He went alarmingly silent again, shoulders shaking as he quietly cried. “I’ll be better.” It was the most aware Jaskier had sounded for the last couple hours and The Witcher’s stomach dropped when he finally realized just _what_ the Bard was hallucinating. Jaskier believed that Geralt was going to _leave him_. He pulled the Bard in closer and began trying to make it better the only way he knew how, talking.

“I won’t, I never will. Please… _please_ just believe me. I’ll tell you everything when you’re better because you _will_ get better, Jaskier. _You will_. I promise.” He rambles on, hoping that he’s getting through to the Bard and if not then, at the very least, his voice mollifying Jaskier’s fears. The Bard didn’t react to anything, just continued mumbling pleas and apologies. Geralt pushes Roach to go faster still, praying that they make it to a Healer in time.

Geralt rode into the town of Gulet like a whirlwind, tearing through the streets and only briefly stopping once in order to curtly get directions. He throws himself off of Roach, carefully dragging Jaskier off after him, the Bard only twitching in response to being moved. He had ceased being responsive about half an hour before their arrival. He carried Jaskier bridal-style to the door, the wood splintering underneath his boot when he ruthlessly kicked it open. 

The Healer stumbled out of a nearby room, sleepily rubbing his eyes. The first thing Geralt noticed, was that he was relatively young. The Healer’s lips parted, probably to protest about their unwelcome presence. But before the man could get so much as a _syllable_ out, Geralt’s lips peeled back into a snarl. The Healer's face blanched of color in response to the voiceless threat, mouth shutting with an audible click.

The Healer took one look at Jaskier and immediately began cleaning off the nearest table. Annoyed by how long the task was taking, Geralt adjusted his hold on the Bard to free up one of his arms. He then viciously swiped the limb across the surface, sending all sorts of papers and kick-knacks to the floor. The Healer made a wounded noise at the action, but the Witcher ignored him in favor of laying the deathly still Bard onto the tabletop.

When Jaskier was situated, Geralt turned to address the Healer for the first time since they’d barged in. The Healer squirmed under his sharp gaze, his arms full of medical supplies. The Witcher moved toward him, face a dark storm of emotion. The Healer took a step back, squeaking when Geralt grabbed him by the collar of his tunic. The Witcher lifted the Healer until his feet nearly left the ground in an intimidating display of the strength he possessed, hauling the man in until they were practically nose-to-nose.

“If he dies, no one in this town will live past dawn.”


	12. Welcome To My Table, Bring Your Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Complete Guide to Identifying Edible and Poisonous Wild Plants?” Jaskier’s eyes snapped up to Geralt again, who looked terribly determined. “You can’t be serious.” The Witcher quirked an eyebrow and pointed at the book again, using said finger to slide it even closer to the Bard.
> 
> “You’d better start reading. I’ll be quizzing you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanna start by apologizing for the previous chapter's cliffhanger, I wasn't planning on it but it just go so long. So here's a fair amount of fluff and feel-good stuff to make up for it, enjoy!

When Jaskier rose into consciousness, the first thing he noticed was the ache in his stomach. It wasn’t nearly as crippling as it had been the last few days, more of a discomfort then anything. _Where was he anyway?_ The Bard slid his hand across the cushioned surface of what felt like an actual _bed,_ which was odd considering the last thing he remembered was passing out while atop Roach. Jaskier cracked his eyes open, taking in the room.

He was probably at an Inn, he’d noticed that all the rooms he’d stayed in during his travels tended to have a similar layout. The musician carefully propped himself up with his elbows, grimacing at the dull throb in his abdomen. His eyes found his lute and pack, both had been deposited in a corner. The way the two items were placed looked almost...deliberate, like the person who set them there had wanted the Bard to be able to spot them immediately upon waking.

There was only one person he knew that would bother going through the trouble.

The Bard's curious eyes slid from his belongings to the door when it quietly clicked open, and Jaskier frowned when he saw the state Geralt was in. Tired wasn’t the word for it, it was something much more bone-deep. Wary exhaustion clung to the Witcher’s frame like a parasite, steadily leeching the life from him. Geralt didn’t even seem to register that Jaskier was _awake,_ as caught up in brooding as he was. The musician watched him shuffle around the room, the familiarity he displayed with his surroundings told Jaskier that they’d been holed up here for at least a few days.

“Not going to say hello?” Jaskier quipped, voice a little rough with disuse, and the gut feeling that insisted something bad had happened only grew at Geralt’s reaction. The Witcher whirled around to face him, molten eyes wide like he didn’t quite believe what he was seeing. The Bard offered a timid smile, unsure of where they stood with each other. Unexpectedly, Geralt’s next breath wheezed out of him, his face twisting into something small and _shattered._ The musician's lungs stalled when the Witcher just up and abandoned whatever he’d been doing, almost desperate to reach the Bard’s side.

 _“Jaskier.”_ Geralt gasped, crumpling to his knees beside the bed like a puppet with its strings cut. The Bard’s throat clicked when he swallowed, extending a hesitant hand toward the Witcher. Geralt seemed to take the gesture as permission to touch, because - quick as lightning - the Witcher was lacing his fingers with Jaskier’s, dragging their clasped hands to his face. Geralt pressed his cool cheek against the back of the Bard’s hand, the Witcher’s eyes fluttering shut when he took a deep breath in.

“Hey, hey. Easy big guy, I’m right here.” Jaskier soothed, boldly settling his free hand onto Geralt’s head. The Witcher pressed into the touch with a sound that reminded the Bard of a wounded animal, the noise had the musician’s chest tightening. “Okay, you’re obviously not all there...so, questions can wait till later.” He murmured, keeping his voice low and soft as to not distress the Witcher further. “First off, you need a bath. Come on, up you get.” Geralt quite literally _whined_ in protest when the Bard tried to wiggle his hand free from the Witcher’s iron grip.

“Geralt, you have to help me here.” The Witcher’s head snapped up, the quick movement dislodging the Bard’s hand. Jaskier realized his mistake when Geralt scrambled to his feet, hovering over the musician with a pinched expression. “I’m fine, my dear Witcher, just a bit sore. I was merely referring to the simple fact that I can’t move you if you don’t want to be moved.” Jaskier reassured, tentatively standing up with a huff of discomfort.

Geralt’s posture was uncertain, his considerable bulk crowding closer to the aching Bard. Jaskier’s joints popped and cracked as he stretched, carefully avoiding any sudden movements lest he aggravate his stomach. The Witcher was a comforting presence at his side, Geralt’s scent of leather and smoke smothering the last of the musician's unease about waking in an unfamiliar place. He took hold of Geralt’s elbow, leading him over to the metal tub that was positioned in the center of the adjoining room.

There was still some water pooled in the basin, but it wasn’t _nearly_ enough to clean oneself off with. The Bard turned when he heard the telling click of releasing latches followed by the scrape of fabric over skin as Geralt methodically stripped out of his bloodied garments, it became immediately clear that the barbaric Witcher was _perfectly fine_ with getting in as-is. Geralt stepped around Jaskier, his fingers curling around the rim of the tub to steady himself as he lifted a leg to get in. The Bard’s hand reached out on its own accord, bringing the Witcher’s movement to an instant halt when he grabbed Geralt’s wrist.

The Witcher twisted to acknowledge him, stepping away from the tub when Jaskier gently pulled him back. “If you think I’m going to let you sit in those measly _two inches_ of water, you’re dead wrong. _Honestly.”_ Jaskier scoffed, lips quirking in amusement at his best friend's antics. “I’ll go ask for more.” The Bard released Geralt’s wrist, intending to leave to do just that, but he’s stopped when the Witcher makes a choked noise of protest. Jaskier paused, aware of how hard it was for Geralt to form words, the Witcher had a hard enough time talking when he was in control.

“I...I’ll go.” Geralt ground out before snatching his pants off the floor, roughly pulling them on. Jaskier blinked in surprise, but nodded in agreement all-the-same. “Oh, sure. I’ll just go ahead and get everything ready then.” The Bard chirped, he certainly had no complaints on the matter. He moved away to grab his pack, unlatching the buckle to dig around for his lightly scented oils and soaps. 

Geralt returned ridiculously quickly, pushing through the doorway while carrying a massive pail of water. Managing it all without spilling a single drop, making Jaskier wonder how the hell he got the door open in the first place with his hands full. The Witcher rushed forward, emptying the bucket into the tub. With his appointed task fulfilled, Geralt tossed the bucket aside and made to get in a second time, but was once again thwarted by Jaskier’s careful touch. 

“You’re not going to warm it up?” The Bard’s inquiry was gentle, Jaskier shifting back a few inches to watch with rapt attention as Geralt did a complicated hand movement. Flames erupted from his fingers to heat the water, curling wisps of steam rising from the basin. When the Witcher turned to Jaskier for further instructions, the musician waved his hands in a _‘go ahead’_ motion. So Geralt finally relaxed into the tub, slumping bonelessly.

Jaskier took a moment to roll up his sleeves before retrieving the soap from the little pile of supplies he’d gathered. He used his free hand to grab the Witcher’s arm from the water, pulling it up and over the lip of the basin so the musician could have easier access. Geralt was pliant under Jaskier’s touch, humming low in his throat when the Bard began running the bar over the Witcher’s pale skin. Jaskier diligently scrubbed away a good few days worth of dirt and dried blood, revealing the familiar collection of scars beneath.

Once the Bard finished with the one arm, he made his way around the tub to repeat the process with Geralt’s second appendage. The Witcher’s head lolled, half-mast eyes tracking Jaskier’s relocation. As soon as the musician settled down and had his hands back on Geralt, the Witcher’s lids slipped shut and a strange sort of rumbling purr vibrated in his chest. The musician’s brows shot up to his hairline, the foreign noise abruptly cutting off when Jaskier paused his ministrations.

“Sorry.” Geralt rasped, his molten gaze blankly watching the steadily greying water. Jaskier frowned at how empty his eyes looked, a huge change from the soft content that’d smoothed out the usual furrow between his brows just seconds prior. “I quite like it actually, it’s soothing. Can you do it on command?” The Bard carefully prodded, testing to see if Geralt was in a sharing mood. Luckily, the Witcher didn’t immediately clam up at the inquiry.

“No, it just...happens. I’m usually able to suppress it.” Geralt grunted, and Jaskier was ecstatic to note that his lovely golden pools were once again alight with emotion. “Well, don’t let me stop you. By all means, purr away.” The Bard quipped, eyeing the Witcher’s snarled, gray hair critically before taking another bottle and dumping a - frankly - _excessive_ amount onto his hands before rubbing it through Geralt’s dirty locks.

The grime that came off the Witcher’s head made the suds on his hands a light gray and the water surrounding him a disgusting stone brown. Jaskier wrinkled his nose and repeated the process several times to make sure all the gunk was out, rinsing out Geralt’s hair with clean water. Once finished with that, he changed over to the lotion, thick and pine-scented. He thoroughly smeared it over the scar tissue on Geralt’s chest, firmly kneading until the tight skin unknotted.

To conclude their bathing ritual, Jaskier loaded his free hand with an off-white conditioner and smeared it through Geralt’s white locks. The Bard scrubbed his hands off in the water before grabbing the silver comb, gently running it through Geralt’s hair until the teeth seamlessly slid between the strands. The Witcher was back to purring, eyes closed and features soft. The sight made the Bard’s chest flutter, a smile curling onto his lips as he washed the conditioner out of Geralt’s hair.

He took the time to rinse the comb as well, patting it dry with a soft cloth before tucking it back into Geralt’s saddlebag. The musician pushed to his feet, knees popping from kneeling for such an extended period of time. He didn’t mind though, Geralt was practically a wet noodle. He came out of the tub easy enough, Jaskier coaxing the loose-limbed Witcher over to the bed. Geralt flopped down face-first, his large frame shifting to make room for the Bard.

Jaskier tugged at the covers until Geralt got the memo and propped himself up just enough for the musician to manhandle the blankets out from under the damp, naked Witcher. Jaskier stripped out of his shirt, tossing it aside before climbing into bed beside Geralt. The Witcher squirmed until they were chest-to-chest, Geralt’s skin warm from the bath. The Bard snuggled closer, exhaling a content sigh when the Witcher settled an arm over his waist, Geralt’s legs tangling with his.

Jaskier thought he felt clumsy lips on the top of his head, but it was probably just wishful thinking.

* * *

“Poisoned? Really? How the hell did I manage that?” Jaskier waved his utensil at the Witcher before shoving another spoonful of oats into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Geralt’s posture stiffened, as if just _remembering_ the sequence of events made him severely uncomfortable. The Witcher’s reluctance to answer was practically a confirmation that whatever had gone down after he’d passed out had been bad, bad enough to rattle Geralt.

“Do you remember eating berries?” It took Jaskier a moment to mull through his memories for said instance, slowly nodding when the memory popped up. “Nightshade. You almost didn’t make it.” The Bard lowered his loaded spoon at the almost imperceptible tremor in Geralt’s voice, abandoning the utensil in his bowl so he could reach out to the Witcher. Jaskier’s nimble fingers brushed over Geralt’s knuckles and, with a soft puff of exhaled air, all the tension flooded out of the Witcher.

Geralt’s eyes darted to something just over Jaskier’s shoulder, the Bard curiously twisting around. Thankfully, it was just a barmaid, the busty woman setting a frothing tankard of ale onto their table with a tight smile. The moment the Bard had left the room, it’d become abundantly clear that the tavern workers have had unpleasant encounters with the Witcher while Jaskier was unavailable as a buffer.

“Well, thankfully, we were lucky.” Jaskier leaves it at that and reaches forward to grab for his pint of ale, frowning when it’s unceremoniously pulled further away by a scowling Witcher. “The Healer said no ale.” Geralt’s hand grips the pint tightly, his meaty fist dwarfing the cup that Jaskier himself had trouble getting his thumb and middle finger to meet around.

“I know you’re taking all that monitoring business to heart, but I’m sure it’ll be fine if I only have _one_ drink.” He flutters his eyelashes and clasps his hands together before him, channeling the beautiful maidens he’s seen here and there begging for something or another. Geralt just levels him with a bitch-face that tells him, _‘you wish’_ and Jaskier breaks the façade, giving up in the face of such immovability.

“You’re such a spoil-sport.” Jaskier complained, throwing his hand out to give the Witcher’s chest a good-natured smack. The Bard immediately froze upon realizing the gravity of what he’d just done. This was the first time he’d laid hands on Geralt since their big fight and, sure it had been a playful gesture, but he couldn’t have known just how the Witcher would react. 

He side-eyed Geralt, who was too busy finishing off Jaskier’s tankard of ale to notice his observing stare. The Witcher hadn’t flinched, which was odd considering that the last time Jaskier’s hand was near Geralt’s person, it was to introduce his fist to the Witcher’s face.

He’s startled out of his thoughts by a loud thud, jumping in his seat as his eyes darted around for the cause of such a noise. His gaze landed on a thick book on the table in front of him and he raised his questioning stare up to implore Geralt to explain the book’s presence. The Witcher tapped at the cover and Jaskier looked down again, warily reading the bolded text aloud. 

_“Complete Guide to Identifying Edible and Poisonous Wild Plants?”_ Jaskier’s eyes snapped up to Geralt again, who looked terribly determined. “You can’t be serious.” The Witcher quirked an eyebrow and pointed at the book again, using said finger to slide it even closer to the Bard.

“You’d better start reading. I’ll be quizzing you.”

* * *

Geralt was ruthless in his questioning, mercilessly critiquing his knowledge, much to Jaskier's displeasure. "What's the difference between a Sweet Bay leaf and a Rhododendron plant?" Geralt grunted out as he rode in front of him, the series of brutal queries beginning once again. He never once looked back at the Bard, who was plucking absentmindedly at the strings of his lute with a frown.

"Uh..." Jaskier tried _really_ hard to think back to the book, but couldn't remember reading anything about _either_ plant. "One could kill you?" He hazards a guess, grimacing when Geralt turned his head sideways so that one gleaming amber eye was visible from over an unfairly broad shoulder.

"Do you know which is which?" Geralt's expression is grave, as if the answer to the question was life or death, though it most definitely _was_ . Jaskier was man enough to admit that he had _no idea_ what the correct answer was, so he went with what he thought to be the obvious choice.

"The, uh...Rhododendron plant sounds a little less friendly, so I'm gonna say that's the deadly one." Jaskier's voice becomes more tiny as Geralt's disappointed stare drilled into his skull. "And how do you tell them apart?" Jaskier lets out a breath as Geralt turns away, removing his demanding gaze from the Bard’s person and letting the poor human breathe.

"Um..." He began, fully ready to bullshit his way through his reply, but Geralt was quick to interrupt him. Jaskier has a moment of relief before Geralt takes and crushes the positive emotion with his scathing words.

"Rhododendron normally has dark green leaves that are spirally arranged and will bloom clusters of white or pink flowers." The Witcher recites as if reading straight from a textbook. "If consumed, Rhododendron can cause adverse side effects such as hallucinations and diarrhea, and eating it has been known to cause fatalities." He finishes his lecture right as he brings Roach to a stop, causing Jaskier to almost run into the animal's backside.

"We'll make camp here for the night." He gruffly informed, swiftly dismounting Roach so he could lead her off the main road and into the surrounding woods. Thankfully, there was still daylight to be had, so after setting up the site, Geralt was off hunting in the woods.

Jaskier sat for a while, playfully strumming his trusty instrument. After a minute of peaceful silence, the moment was broken by the deep rumble of his belly. He clutched at his stomach, cursing his offending organ and Geralt's lack of breaks upon their recent travel. He gets up, approaching Roach and the grazing horse leaves him to his search. He finds his pack among the many bags on the mammal and digs around until he finds his emergency stash of food.

He was down to a small chunk of bread and a couple pieces of dried meat from the wild boar Geralt had slain a couple days back. He sighed and began thinking of ways to make the small snack stretch until their arrival to the town, now three days away. He was about to break the bread down when he saw the corner of his edible plants book peeking out of his bag and got a grand idea.

He dragged the heavy book the rest of the way out of his shoulder bag and began to flip through it, already excited at the prospect of finding food and proving to Geralt that he wasn't as incompetent as the Witcher seemed to think. With a wide grin, he left his stash and tucked his informative book under his arm before trekking into the forest.

*** * ***

It seemed as if he'd been out there for _hours,_ even though it couldn't have been more than ten minutes. The Bard had gotten turned around several times before he decided it would be best to start marking the trees as he went, so he wouldn't get lost again. He was losing the advantage of the light and he still had yet to find something even remotely edible. He had a couple maybes, but he wasn't going to risk his or Geralt's life on a guess.

There was a particularly daring rabbit that seemed to be mocking his lack of hunting prowess by curiously following him as he trampled through the underbrush. He had valiantly tried to kill it by chucking rocks, but was immediately frustrated as every single throw went wide. Wide enough that the damned rabbit in question hadn't moved a muscle, nibbling on the grass calmly and not at all threatened with Jaskier's attempts to murder it.

Sure, even if he had managed to kill it, what then? He couldn't field strip an animal to save his life, anything to do with insides or blood made him queasy, even thinking about such a thing made his empty stomach roll uneasily. So, that was out of the question. But he also wasn’t going to bring the limp corpse to Geralt to take care of for him and contradict everything he was trying to prove by doing this shit in the first place.

The worst part was the fact that he'd become covered from head to toe in dirt, leaves, and grass trying to dive after several tasty looking critters that came across his path. Leaving his originally light blue silk attire a dusty grayish brown. A truly atrocious color on him, he was sure.

After it seemed he’d been bested by all the small fuzzy creatures in the woods, since he had yet to successfully catch something, he gave up on acquiring something warm-blooded and focused on the plants. Who couldn’t up and run away before he grabbed them.

After about an hour, he managed to collect an abundance of plants, fruits, mushrooms, and nuts that they could snack on throughout their adventure. He used a cloth he had found on his person and tied it up into a kind of pouch to store his finds.

By the time he decided to begin making his way back to camp, it was dark enough that he had to use the light of their fire in order to successfully find his way. He stumbled out of the brush and squawked when he almost fell neck-first into one of Geralt’s swords. The Witcher lowered the weapon upon realizing that it was only Jaskier. Geralt gave him a long once over before snorting in mirth when he took in his ragged form.

“What were you up to? You look like you went ten rounds with a tree and lost.” Geralt called over his shoulder, moving back to the small fire pit. The smell encircling the clearing was mouthwatering as the thick cuts of wild boar roasted, fat dripping off into the hungry flames, making it sizzle and pop in delight. Jaskier tried not to drool too much as he plopped himself down next to Geralt, proudly presenting his cloth stuffed with random snacks. “I got us breakfast.”

Geralt took it and rooted around, nodding as he observed what the Bard had procured. He handed it back with a neutral expression, making Jaskier deflate a little as he took it, shoving it away into his shoulder bag. When he turned back to the other male, his eyes crossed as he tried to look at whatever Geralt had shoved into his face. Jaskier grabbed the Witcher’s wrist and pulled it back so that he could see what was in Geralt’s hand. It was one of the mushrooms he’d found while wandering around the woods. 

He got a feeling of dread as Geralt looked up at him. “This is either a Death Cap or an Agaric mushroom. You have to decide which one it is and react accordingly, because in two minutes, I’m going to eat this.” Jaskier balked at the psychotic Witcher and prayed he was joking, but he looked dead serious. The Bard spent most of the first minute panicking and trying to talk Geralt out of this absolutely _insane_ idea. When that didn’t work, he racked his brain for any useful information.

With thirty seconds remaining Jaskier desperately attempted to remember anything about what the book said about mushrooms, but came up blank in his panic. About ten seconds from the end of Geralt’s countdown Jaskier just reacted, snatching the fungus from the Witcher’s loose hold before stuffing it into his own mouth.

They both just stared at each other for a moment before Geralt grabbed Jaskier and pulled him close, the Bard sprawling out across Geralt’s lap as he was…hugged? Jaskier went ahead and concluded that it was the safe one, it was just too bad that he found that out only _after_ eating it. He tried to say something, but his mouth was full and his words just ended up a garbled mess as chunks of mushroom spewed out everywhere. “You’re an idiot.” Geralt sounded a strange mix of fond and terrified. Jaskier couldn’t even defend himself, still working on finishing off the spongy fungus.

He was released from the cage of Geralt’s arms once he regained the ability to speak. The two decided upon making a soup from the items they both had collected. Jaskier was set to roughly chopping roots and mushrooms as well as grinding up nuts with various herds using the Witchers gray ceramic mortar and pestle. Geralt himself got to work on field dressing the last of the wild boar to add to the pot. 

Once the concoction is brought to a soft boil, Geralt began the long process of slow-cooking the soup. He added in all the ingredients while Jaskier tore into the roasted pork sticks the Witcher had prepared with gusto. The pot was still softly boiling when the two dropped off into sleep, and continued throughout the night.

* * *

When Jaskier woke the next morning, he was - first and foremost - able to pick out the heady smell of the soup before even opening his eyes. He’s surprised that they hadn’t attracted unwanted attention with how strong the appetizing scent was. As soon as the Bard sat up, a bowl was practically shoved under his nose. Jaskier scrambled to grab the object as the hand holding it let go, the hand returning a second later to drop a spoon into the murky broth. Somehow, Jaskier kept his balance all the while managing to avoid wearing his food. 

Geralt settled himself next to the musician, shoveling the soup into his face like he hadn’t eaten in days when Jaskier knows for a _fact_ that the Witcher inhaled about twenty ounces of flame roasted pig last night. The Bard followed his lead, eagerly digging into his own breakfast. A lewd moan escaped when the flavor hit his tongue, lips pulling up into a toothy grin when he noticed Geralt quickly look away from him out of his peripheral vision. They both ignore the Bard’s involuntary pleased noises, polishing off their respective bowls in record time. 

Once Jaskier was done with seconds, he decided that it was as good a time as any to address the tension that hung over them like a dark cloud. “So, Geralt…” The Bard set his empty bowl aside, turning to face the Witcher in question. To his surprise, Geralt was already staring at him intently and, before Jaskier could open his mouth to beg for forgiveness, the Witcher nodded solemnly and pushed to his feet.

“I understand Jaskier. This is a dangerous life to lead and I won’t force you to stay. I’ll drop you off at the next town and try my best to keep my distance. I know that you fear me, that you… _hate_ me-” Jaskier’s eyes widened, jaw going slack. His hand darted out to grab Geralt’s wrist, the Witcher’s inane babble cutting off at the contact. Jaskier tugged at Geralt until he visibly crumbled, going with the musician’s gentle pulling until he’s seated next to the mortified Bard.

 _“Geralt.”_ Jaskier choked out, his throat clicking dryly when he swallowed. “I could _never_ hate you.” The Bard’s voice broke and he had to turn away, lest the Witcher see the tears that were welling up. “If anything you should hate _me._ I’m no better than those bigoted assholes. I hit you Geralt, hurt you. I’m supposed to be your _friend-”_ This time Geralt cut him off, eyes wild and desperate. 

“You _are_ my friend. I’m a Witcher, I can take a wimpy hit from a Bard.” Geralt’s attempt at humor falls flat like a deflating lead balloon and Jaskier feels the first of what is sure to be _many_ _tears_ drop from his lashes. The musician leapt to his feet, pacing before the disgruntled Witcher. “That’s just it though. Just because you _can_ take it doesn't mean you _deserve_ to be treated that way. I’m a terrible person. I’m _so sorry.”_

His face is wet and Jaskier can barely see Geralt’s outline through his blurred vision, but he’s suddenly enveloped in a strong grip and tugged towards flame-warmed skin. The Bard clung to the Witcher, tremoring hands grabbing fistfuls of Geralt’s dark shirt. He was sure that his nails were digging into the Witcher’s back, it had to hurt. But Geralt didn’t seem to care, the Witcher pressing his nose against Jaskier’s hair to inhale deeply.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Jaskier.”


	13. I'm Gonna Make This Place Your Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier blinked awake, squinting at the darkened ceiling for a moment. Something had roused him, but he wasn’t sure what. A heavy sense of apprehension settled in his stomach when he realized that it was dead silent, unnaturally so. The usual sounds that accompanied night were distressingly absent, even the crickets were quiet.
> 
> The Bard threw his covers back, carefully creeping out of bed. He forgoed lighting a candle, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He snuck up to the window, slowly pushing it open so he could get a look outside. The night air was cold, making him shiver as he stuck his head out of the building. Jaskier’s eyes jumped up to the sky and he frowned, brows creased with worry when he noted that it was cloudy, hiding the moon and stars from view.

"Why do you have so many fucking potions!" Jaskier’s voice was shrill with anxiety, the Bard frantically rummaging through the leather bag. He picked up a tangerine colored bottle and shook it a little before dismissing the potion, roughly putting it back where he’d found it. This sequence went on for about four more bottles before Geralt even bothered to respond to Jaskier's hysterics. 

"I need the blue one." The Witcher grunted from his position against a nearby tree, the stoic Witcher cautiously prodding at the deep puncture in his side. The wound looked painful, the split skin leaking a disturbing mix of fluorescent lime green venom and crimson blood. Upon seeing it, Jaskier had refused to go anywhere near the Witcher  _ or _ his injury. Unfortunately, the paralyzing venom had spread enough that Geralt couldn’t get up and retrieve his potions, so he put the unharmed Bard to the task.

"I know this may come as a shock to an uncultured lout like yourself, but there are actually  _ several _ different shades of blue that exist and you have exactly  _ three _ of them, so I'll ask again...which potion do you need?" Jaskier’s scent soured, the familiar spruce and rain shifting into something rotten and pungent. Geralt fought the urge to cover the lower half of his face, forcefully stomping down the rising instinct to soothe the rattled musician.

"...blue, like your eyes." When all he gets for his effort is a blank look, he grits his teeth. Geralt released a frustrated growl, staring into the treeline as he searched his mind for a better description. But - unlike Jaskier - the Witcher wasn’t good with words, his brain filled up with years upon years of drills, bestiaries, spells, and potions.

If he didn’t get the right potion soon, he would be a useless lump of flesh for  _ hours _ as his body fought off the effects of the venom. The dose he’d gotten could easily kill a man, and Geralt had to steer his mind away from the darker places that involved the deadly venom and a certain Bard. The Witcher grimaced when his shoulder prickled, a catalyst to the unnatural numbness that would soon follow. “Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice was small and unsure, the thick smog of fear that wafted off the Bard increasing.

He suddenly recalled the incident this morning, a man had approached Jaskier while Geralt was ordering breakfast and struck up a conversation. And he used the term ‘conversation’ lightly seeing as all that’d spilled from the man’s vile lips were slippery words of flattery, the Witcher had been able to smell the man’s want from all the way across the room. The unwelcome company had managed to comment on the beauty of Jaskier’s eyes before Geralt had stormed over, hovering beside the Bard like an omen of death. Under the full weight of the Witcher’s glare, the stranger’s resolve crumbled. The man had hastily excused himself before fleeing the building and, if the swine was smart, he’d have been quick to vacate the town too. 

_ What word had the horny bastard used to describe those eyes?  _

"...cornflower?" He hazards a guess and Jaskier's heartbeat spiked, sending the furiously pumping organ into dangerous territory. Geralt's eyes snapped to the musician, before sliding away to search for danger. But there was no approaching monster, only Jaskier's wide, startled pools of cornflower staring at him in a mixture of awe and disbelief.

"I might just make a poet of you yet." Jaskier cleared his throat, ducking his head to allow his light brown hair to slip down, covering his expressive eyes from view as he spoke. The Witcher bared his teeth at the comment, loathing the Bard's ability to get under his skin and anger him so easily. Jaskier snorted, unruffled by the Witcher’s grumpy sneer. Geralt’s mood begrudgingly perked up a bit when the Bard’s scent shifted into something lighter, something sweeter.

"You really shouldn't make a habit of snarling at those who have your life - quite  _ literally _ \- in their hands." Jaskier remarked happily, the Bard quickly retrieving the correct potion from the stash. "I also need the yellow one." At Jaskier's scathing side-glance, Geralt corrects himself. "The one colored like dandelions.”

*** * ***

By the time they made it to any kind of civilization, Geralt was more-or-less healed and Jaskier was  _ miserable _ . He was sick and tired of sleeping on the hard dirt and bathing in freezing cold streams. He needed a hot bath and a nice mattress to pass out on. So when they got to the Inn, Jaskier put on his most charming act and ensured that the two would have a warm bath, food, and lodging. Jaskier was quick to strip down when the two were alone in the room with the steaming bath, Geralt sighing in fond exasperation when the Bard practically dove into the wooden tub.

“Oh, I’m sorry dear. I can help with your armor.” Jaskier beckoned Geralt closer, reaching out for the buckles on the Witcher's chest when he knelt beside the basin. Geralt’s thighs were pressed flush against the tub in order to keep the Bard from leaning over too far and losing his balance. Jaskier expertly slid the chest plate off and got started on the Witcher’s cuffs, mulling over how Geralt put on and took off the heavy armor day in and day out. It seemed exhausting. “There, all done.” Jaskier yawned before settling back into the tub, flashing a grin at the hovering Witcher.

“Come on in, the water’s fine.” Jaskier mused, knowing that Geralt wouldn’t dare. As predicted, the Witcher merely rolled his eyes before wandering towards the bed, stripping off his shirt. Jaskier watched lazily as Geralt’s back was revealed, cornflower pools sliding over thick muscles covered by pale skin, broken by several crisscrossing scars. The Witcher rummaged through his saddle bag for a change of clothes, occasionally glancing back at the lounging musician.

The Bard let his lids drop, taking a deep breath before sinking down into the pleasantly warm water. He was so very tired, losing track of time as he drifted in the heat. That was until hands came into the water, fingers curling around his forearms to urgently drag his flailing figure out of the tub. Geralt loomed above him, hands frantically fluttering over his form as Jaskier coughed up the water that he’d swallowed in the chaos.

“Geralt!? What the fuck!?” Jaskier spluttered, sitting up to shove the Witcher away from him. “Are you  _ trying _ to kill me!?” Geralt stared at him, confused. “You were under for five minutes.” At Jaskier's blank look, the Witcher growled, frustrated that he couldn’t find the right words to explain. “The average human can only hold their breath for up to two minutes.” Geralt snapped, clearly embarrassed by the admittance of the knowledge. 

He was surprised by Jaskier’s music-like laughter and his eyes shot up to see the surprisingly compact Bard giggling uncontrollably. “Holy shit. You…you thought that I was  _ drowning?” _ Jaskier suddenly realized that he was very naked, reaching for Geralt to implore the Witcher help him up. Once the Bard was on his feet, he grabbed his trousers and slipped them on. “I can hold my breath for about seven minutes. Works wonders in the bedroom.” Jaskier waggled his eyebrows as he made a lewd movement with his tongue. 

Geralt moved away from the Bard with a scoff and finished stripping, dumping himself into the lukewarm water. Geralt made some complex movement with his hand and fire burst forth, heating the bath to almost boiling. Jaskier wasn’t worried about the heat, knowing that the Witcher enjoyed unnaturally hot temperatures. The Bard left him to it, climbing into bed. 

He was fast asleep the minute his head hit the pillow.

* * *

“Really!? You’re making me stay here!?” Jaskier squawked, drawing several eyes to their corner of the tavern. Geralt was sitting at the table, hunched over his warm oats while Jaskier seethed. The Bard’s hands braced on his hips as he stood above the Witcher, trying to look as intimidating as possible. The musician was pretty sure he heard someone sitting nearby choke on their drink at his clipped tone.

“Yes.” Geralt’s speech predictably converted back to monosyllables when faced with the Bard’s ire. When Jaskier gesticulated wildly and made unintelligible noises, Geralt sighed and elaborated. “It’s too dangerous.” That only proved to amplify the Bard’s fury. He opened his mouth to unload a verbal ass-kicking, but restrained himself when he noticed Geralt’s eyes darting about the room, clearly uncomfortable with the amount of attention their row was drawing.

“Alright, fine. I’ll stay here, safe and  _ bored.” _ Jaskier moaned, flopping over onto the wooden bench across from Geralt. The Witcher merely hummed in response, quickly finishing off the rest of his pint of watered-down ale. Jaskier sulked a moment before sitting up straight and prodding the Witcher about the contract. “Do you know what you’re going after?” Geralt was quiet for a long while, clearly picking through the information he was given and determining what the creature was. 

After a long look at Jaskier, the Bard could practically see the Witcher’s walls slam shut. “I should be back by tomorrow morning.” Geralt informed, pushing out of his chair. Jaskier mirrored his movements so that he stood before the Witcher, blocking his way out of the building. “And if you’re not?” The Bard was pleading at this point, hoping that Geralt would know the right thing to say to reassure him. Though, he should have known better.

“Then I’m probably dead.”

*** * ***

Jaskier blinked awake, squinting at the darkened ceiling for a moment. Something had roused him, but he wasn’t sure what. A heavy sense of apprehension settled in his stomach when he realized that it was dead silent, unnaturally so. The usual sounds that accompanied night were distressingly absent, even the crickets were quiet.

The Bard threw his covers back, carefully creeping out of bed. He forgoed lighting a candle, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He snuck up to the window, slowly pushing it open so he could get a look outside. The night air was cold, making him shiver as he stuck his head out of the building. Jaskier’s eyes jumped up to the sky and he frowned, brows creased with worry when he noted that it was cloudy, hiding the moon and stars from view. 

His face blanched of color when the wind shifted, bringing with it the sound of distant screams. His stomach flipped at the knowledge that something out there was hurting someone, possibly even multiple someones. He squinted into the darkness, willing himself to see something,  _ anything. _ He caught the silhouette of a crowd of people running away from a dark shape prowling the city streets. Whatever the creature was, it was working its way towards the Inn. 

Jaskier watched, frozen in terror as the beast caught up with some poor man, who went down under the monster with a stifled cry. The sound was soon replaced by wet gurgling, then finally silence. No one else was awake, there were no lights, there was no commotion, just the suffocating quiet of darkness. It didn’t make any sense. The Bard was startled into movement when the beast’s gaze slid up to look  _ right at him, _ it’s eyes ink black.

Jaskier backpedaled when it abruptly surged forward, toward the base of the building. The Bard scrambled back from the open window, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He braced himself on the nightstand, trying to wrestle his labored breathing into something resembling normal as he debated whether or not to warn others. Anyone he bothered at this time of night would be grumpy and less inclined to take him seriously, which was a huge disadvantage. But he ultimately decided it was better to at least try, even if his efforts earned him a sound beating.

He cautiously pulled his door open, thanking the gods that it didn’t make any noise, and peeked out into the hall. His room was at the end of the corridor, the furthest away from the staircase that led to the ground floor, so he looked in that direction first. It was like a black hole, no light escaped the endless dark of the hallway. He debated again where he should start. 

The people placed closest to the stairway would be victims first, while the ones further down would hear any commotion and have a chance to escape. With the choice practically made for him, he crept out of the relative safety of his room and to the right. His whole body was shaking, adrenaline rushing through his veins as his fight or flight instincts kicked in. He was four doors away from the staircase when his knees locked up, refusing to bring him any closer to the stairs. He heaved in trembling breaths, feet stubbornly rooted to the ground as sweat ran rivulets down his clammy skin.

He settled with entering the room that he was in front of, softly closing the door behind him until only a crack remained visible. He approached the bed and tapped the burly man on the arm, praying that he wouldn’t get hit. The stranger grumbled in his sleep and blinked groggily. His eyes landed on Jaskier’s panicked face and sharpened, suddenly lucid. The man lurched upright and shoved the Bard so hard that he stumbled back, barely managing to stay on his feet. 

He lifted a finger to his mouth, shushing the man. Hopefully the stranger had common sense and would at least listen before lashing out, but he was apparently asking for too much. The man was, understandably, defensive and angry, his voice hard as he demanded to know why Jaskier was in his room. The Bard tried his best to explain the situation without sounding crazy, but he didn’t manage to succeed if the look on the other man’s face was any indication. He grabbed Jaskier by the collar and raised a threatening fist, the Bard squirming in his grasp in a futile attempt to escape. 

Both men froze when a low growl echoed through the walls.

The stranger dropped Jaskier, who was able to muffle his landing, and they both cautiously moved towards the cracked door. The sharp scrape of claws against hardwood seemed deafening in the dead silence, sending a violent shiver down the Bard’s spine. Jaskier was once again reminded of how odd it was that no one else was awake, the beast certainly wasn’t quiet. The screams of the mauled were brutal and loud, yet no one stirred. It was... _ wrong. _

The man peeked through the crack and stopped breathing, easily moving aside when Jaskier wedged himself next to the man. He peered through the offered space, catching a glimpse of a tail as the beast prowled into the room closest to the staircase. The musician hadn’t even heard it ascend to the second floor, he pushed the disturbing realization aside. Jaskier pulled the pale man away from the door and shook him a bit, regaining his attention.

“What is that fucking thing!?” He breathed, as if afraid that if he spoke any louder than a whisper, that it would hear him. Jaskier understood the sentiment. “I don’t know, but I do know that we have to warn as many as we can before getting out of here.” The man’s face screwed up in incredulous confusion, and the Bard suddenly felt very,  _ very _ alone.

“Fuck the rest of them, they’re already dead. I’m getting out!” He hissed, jabbing a finger into Jaskier’s chest hard enough to bruise before pulling the door open and moving into the hallway. The Bard scrambled after the man, grabbing his arm and spinning him around to face him. Jaskier opened his mouth, about to scold the man, but noticed how the stranger’s eyes darted from the musician's face to something just over his shoulder.

His teeth clicked when his jaw shut, tongue suddenly dry as he turned just enough to see that the beast - who had been climbing out of the room one down from where they were - had spotted them and was crouched, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Jaskier didn’t dare look away from the shadowed figure, numbly telling the other man to run.

Jaskier released the man and hauled down the corridor, the duo sprinting for their lives down the dark hallway as the sound of pursuit echoed from behind them. It was gaining, the Bard knew they couldn’t outrun it, but he forced himself not to look back and gauge the closing distance between them. The musician noticed the man veer off into another room, slamming the door shut behind him, essentially abandoning Jaskier. Though the Bard could still hear the thundering steps behind him, telling him that it was still after him.

Jaskier grabbed onto the doorframe of his open room, using his momentum to slingshot himself inside, narrowly avoiding the jaws of the beast. He heard the wooden frame splinter as it shoved itself through the narrow entry, but kept running full tilt...right at the still open window. He threw himself out of the cramped space provided headfirst, tucking to minimize damage.

He hit the ground hard, rolling with the impact. His ankle throbbed dully when he hopped up, clutching his throbbing shoulder as he hurtled into the woods, never once looking back.

*** * ***

Geralt grunted when his back collided with a tree, the thick trunk caving under the force of his body weight paired with the repelling spell that’d been thrown at him. He spit out a mouthful of blood, leaping out of the way of a fireball. The bitch cackled, throwing spell after spell at him in an attempt to tire him out. 

Fucking Witches.

What was odd was  _ how _ she was fighting him, if he could even call it that. She maintained a certain amount of distance between them, never allowing the Witcher to get too close. She was playing at something, perhaps she had some sort of ace up her sleeve. It wasn’t a pleasant scenario, but it was the only conclusion that matched her erratic behavior.

He had to end this before she realized that he wasn’t slowing down, before she noticed that he was playing it up in order to accurately test her offense and defense. He’d picked up that monsters who thought they were winning tended to give away too much, and she’d certainly given him plenty of weak points to work with.

He made a show of faltering on the next attack, narrowly managing to dodge the nasty curse she hurled. Geralt paused when she threw out her hand, grip tightening on the hilt of his blade when a huge ball of fire roared into existence before her extended fingers. Her smile was full of teeth, her eyes all malicious glee. The Witcher was suddenly thankful that he hadn’t brought Jaskier along, she wouldn't have thought twice about using Bard’s safety against him.

She launched the inferno at him and he ran right at it, using the flames to conceal his movement. He gracefully ducked to the side when the fireball was close enough to singe his armor, heat licked up his back when it exploded just behind him. He was three steps away from being within stabbing distance. Two steps.

One step.

Her wide eyes reflected his glinting blade, her hands coming up in a vain attempt to stop the blow from landing. No, not blocking,  _ reaching. _ Abruptly, goosebumps rose on his arms, the hair on the back of his neck prickling as his instincts screamed for him to back off. His body locked up, but his momentum was working against him. The sword veered off course, slicing across her collarbone instead of her neck.

He stumbled right into her extended hand, her palm firmly pressing against his nose as her fingers fanned out over his face. His vision went blurry, no that wasn’t right, her face was the only thing he couldn’t see. The rest of her was crystal clear, along with his surroundings. His eyes itched with magic, medallion violently vibrating against his armored chest.

“What did you do?” He snarled, retreating a few steps to rub at his eyes. No change, he still couldn’t make out her features. She laughed, it was an ugly sound, nothing like Jaskier’s full-body howl, which always managed to send a ripple of warmth down his spine. The grating sound made his head ache, like someone had taken a hammer and was repeatedly beating it against his temple. He tried to tell her to shut up, but the words came out as a garbled mess.

That wasn’t good.

“Having a little trouble, Witcher?” She cooed, voice sickeningly sweet. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, the pounding in his head getting worse with each passing second. He couldn’t seem to hold onto a thought, logic slipping through his fingers like sand. He tensed when his spine shifted, eyes growing comically wide with disbelief.

“That’s right, I’ve heard all about the  _ White Wolf. _ I thought it was only fitting. The spell isn’t perfect, of course, so it’s going to  _ hurt.” _ She shrugged, like she hadn’t just given him the most devastating news. There was a reason that Witchers used a potion to shift and not a spell, things tended to go wrong when magic was involved in the change. The potion helped encourage the shift, forcing it was unhealthy and dangerous.

His mouth dropped open when his spine dislocated, the wounded keen that tore from his throat startling nearby birds into flight. Geralt’s knees folded on their own accord, the Witcher gritting his teeth around a groan when his left arm popped out of socket. It took a full thirty seconds for his limb to arrange itself properly, which was a sign of how well and truly fucked he was.

“Oh, this is just delightful! I was hoping that the rumors were true. You Witchers really aren’t that different from us monsters, are you?” She sounded positively  _ giddy, _ her foot poking at his newly realigned arm. He pressed his sweaty forehead against the cool grass, flinching when his other arm was forced out of place with a click. He could distantly hear the Witch circling him, observing.

He hissed out a breath when the abused appendage finally snapped back into place, taking deep pulls of air while he could because he knew what came next. There wasn’t really anything he could do about the inhuman noise that echoed into the night when his knee strained backward until the joint gave with a sharp crack. Liquid fire rushed through his veins, his body quaking with the urge to spew his guts all over the ground.

“Still conscious I see, I’m honestly impressed. You'll be a lovely addition to my ranks, which I now have to rebuild no thanks to you.” Geralt bared his teeth in her general direction, unable to form words. Whether his sudden inability to speak was due to the pain, or from whatever she did to him, was currently unclear. His clothes ripped, splitting at the seams as his frame grew larger. His toes snapped and shifted as fur sprouted from his skin like a rippling wave, claws sliding out from between his paws to rake through the dirt.

Geralt screamed into the grass when his other knee snapped backward, face pressed into the lush greenery. His head swam, thoughts scrambled into a confusing blur that had the uncomfortable pressure behind his eyes building. The Witcher whined through gritted teeth, wishing the man who smelled like trees and rain were with him. The human would touch him with gentle hands, would distract him from the pain that threatened to drown him.

The rest of the change passed in a blur of constant agony, even  _ breathing  _ hurt by the time it was over. The Wolf’s ears twitched lazily, tracking the woman who smelt of burning herbs as she made a full circuit around him. His fingers curled into fists when the sudden urge to rip her apart surged to the forefront of his mind. Unfortunately, his whole body felt like one giant bruise.

“My god, you’re magnificent. Now, your first order is to slaughter the town, they’ll regret sending a Witcher after me. Go, the night will grant you the cover of darkness, and no one will see you coming until it’s too late.” The woman murmured, waving a hand. The Wolf’s head tilted when the noises of the forest went quiet, the light of the moon blocked by thick clouds. Seeing as she was distracted, he lashed out in a lightning quick strike, causing the woman to choke on her next breath.

Crimson spurted from the four gashes across her pale throat, and she raised a shaking hand to the gushing wound with a shocked gurgle. She stumbled back when the Wolf braced his hand on the nearest tree to haul his trembling body upright, his massive form throwing the woman into shadow. He considered her blurred face for a moment before advancing, freezing when the breeze shifted. 

He turned back to the heap of fabric that was once clothes, stalking up to the ruined garments to snatch one up. He brought it up to his face, pressing his nose into the soft material. The Wolf could smell sweat, aged leather, and dried blood on the cloth, but there was also that familiar scent of fresh rain and forest and honey and  _ home. _ He wanted to find the source, wanted to keep it all to himself because surely others would seek to  _ take _ it from him.

The Wolf spared the woman one last glance, absent-mindedly noting how she was now sprawled out on the ground, before turning his back on her to instead follow the enticing scent.

* * *

Jaskier finally slowed when he couldn’t breathe anymore, the Bard stumbling to a stop against the nearest tree. He braced his hip against the rough bark, hands on his knees as he sucked in shallow breaths. He was pretty sure that it wouldn’t follow him, not with a whole Inn full of people prime for the slaughter. The thought had his stomach rolling uneasily, but he’d done everything within his power to help, so he buried the misplaced guilt that threatened to choke him.

“Okay, step one: find Geralt.” Jaskier gasped, blinking down at his bare feet with a grimace. There was no light to aid him in checking to see if they were more or less intact, and he winced when he flexed his toes. Apparently he had a cut on the soft flesh between the stubby digits, along with a few superficial lacerations on the bottom of each foot. He could feel dirt clinging to the wounds, sticky with blood.

The Bard startled when a twig snapped somewhere in the woods to his left, his head swiveling to squint in the general direction of the sound. Something shifted in the encompassing darkness, a shadowed silhouette rising up from a cluster of bushes. Jaskier’s lungs stalled, heartrate spiking. He shoved off the tree, bolting in a random direction. He could hear it give chase, it’s hulking frame bursting through the dense foliage.

“Fuckfuckfuck.” Jaskier hissed, blindly tearing through the forest with the beast right at his heels. He could hear it’s steady breathing, it’s pounding steps drawing ever closer. The Bard grabbed a nearby tree, using it to aid him in a sharp turn, it scrambled after him, clawed hands just barely grazing the back of his tunic. He heard a frustrated snarl, and it was somehow familiar.

“Oh gods I’m going to die, Geralt’s going to find my fucking  _ mangled corpse-” _ He shrieked when his foot hit something fleshy, his ankle getting tangled up in some sort of necklace. The jewelry pulled taut when he stumbled, sending him sprawling. He yelped when his hands slid against the wet grass, his chest hitting the ground with a splat. It took a minute for the heavy scent of iron to register, the realization that he tripped over a cooling body had his eyes burning with frustrated tears.

_ “Fuck.” _ He hiccupped, twisting to squint at the slightly darker shape. The musician cautiously reached down to tug at the leather strap that was tangled around the limb, his shaking - and no doubt bloody - fingers weren’t much help in trying to struggle out of the necklace. A wet nose pressed against the back of his neck, bringing his futile efforts to free himself to a screeching halt. He hadn’t even heard it sneaking up, the Bard bowed his head with a whimper.

“Oh gods, just let it be over quickly.” Jaskier sniffled, slumping in defeat. He shivered, jolting when a hot tongue flattened over the base of his neck, the scratchy organ dragging across bare skin. It’s tongue curled, catching his chin, and the coagulating blood that was smeared across it. The beast reared back with a mean snarl that had the hair on Jaskier’s arms raising, a choked sob pushed up his esophagus when it’s clawed fingers curled around his shoulder to wrench him around.

The Bard blinked at the shadow that loomed over him, his lower lip wobbling until he bit it. Soft fur brushed his nose when the beast leaned in to sniff at his blood-soaked shirt, Jaskier’s brows furrowing when he picked up the familiar scent of leather and bonfire smoke. “...Geralt?” The musician whispered, his hopes confirmed when the beast paused. 

“Geralt, what the hell? Why didn’t you just  _ say _ it was you? There’s this monster running rampant through the town...Geralt? What’s wrong?” Jaskier squeaked, squirming until the Witcher growled, a crystal clear warning to sit still. The Bard reached for Geralt’s face, praying that the Witcher wouldn’t rip his arms off. He sighed when his fingers pressed against soft fur, his palms cupping Geralt’s fluffy cheeks.

“What happened?” He tried, but the Witcher ignored his question in favor of nuzzling into his touch. Jaskier chewed on his lip, he had to try and reach Geralt. He shifted one of his hands to the space between the Witcher’s eyes, pressing two fingers against the short fur to drag the digits down to the tip of his nose. 

Geralt heaved a sigh, going boneless against the Bard with a pained whimper. Suddenly, the small clearing they were in was bathed in moonlight, the dark clouds dispersing like they’d never been there in the first place. Jaskier actually startled a bit when the crickets started up again, and it was the best sound in the world to Jaskier at that moment.

“I’m right here my dear, it’s okay. You’re safe now.”


	14. Nothing Is Worth Losing You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was having a lovely conversation with a candle-maker when a group of about eight rowdy men stumbled past, laughing loudly and shoving at one another. He saw two of them chatting quietly towards the back, one subtly pointing at a fashionably dressed maiden a few booths down from his. As they passed him, he made sure to look busy, but kept his attention firmly on the group. The musician watched as the same pair from before noticed him. One nudging the other and jerking a chin at the colorful Bard.

Jaskier’s quill scratched over his notebook, trying to keep his hand steady despite the rough gravel that hindered the wagon’s wheels. He’d lost his balance going over an unexpected bump a few times already, so there was some sloppy penmanship and random ink blots scattered about the page. At least the Bard wasn’t walking, finally able to give his aching feet the rest they demanded.

The family they were subsequently traveling with were nice enough, the musician was in the back with their fifteen-year-old daughter and eight-year-old son. The young boy was playing quietly with a raggedy doll while his sister was busy repairing Jaskier’s torn doublet. The Bard himself sat at the back of the wagon, legs dangling off the edge of the rough wood. Geralt was walking just in front of him, within touching distance, easily keeping pace with the slow-moving caravan.

Earlier that morning, Jaskier and Geralt had been going down the road when they’d heard the screams for help. While the Witcher took the extra time to mount Roach, Jaskier had already gotten a pretty good head start. The sounds cut off abruptly as he skidded around a bend in the road, the Bard sliding to a stop upon seeing the absolute carnage before him. 

Jaskier searched the area with wide eyes, dread settling in his stomach when he didn’t spot the people who’d been calling for help. A wooden wagon was angled awkwardly halfway off the road, only one horse frantically kicking, trying valiantly to get free. Where the other horse was supposed to be was a massive stain of crimson. Though there were drag marks, a trail of smeared blood leading away from the caravan. Jaskier squinted at the odd shape further down the road, it was undulating oddly.

The Bard distantly recalled hearing Roach coming down the path as he cautiously slinked towards the shape, careful to avoid stepping on anything that could cause unnecessary noise. As he came closer he could make out two separate animals, the Bard forced to throw a hand over his mouth and nose as the smell became unbearable. There were blood and entrails splattered about the road and a large black dog ripping at the carcass of a large stallion. The Bard made to back away from the monster, but caught a glimpse of movement to his left. His wide eyes darted to the figure of a young boy trying to make his way to the abandoned cart. 

The Bard saw the exact moment that the Warg also noticed the child. Before the beast could even decide to attack, Jaskier was racing toward the kid. He saw a black shape out of his peripheral and pushed himself harder, praying that he got to the boy before the Warg. Jaskier plowed into the kid, throwing them both to the side just in time to miss the leaping shadow behind him. The Bard’s fingers curled around the kid’s arm in a bruising grip, dragging the boy with him as he scrambled to get the both of them out of range.

Jaskier barely dodged a swipe of its massive claws, his sleeve tearing where the nails caught the fabric, before backing away from the beast. He yanked the kid behind him as it slowly prowled forward, thick globs of red-tinted drool dripping from between bared teeth. Jaskier was frozen in place when it lunged, it’s deadly claws ready to rend and tear. Time seemed to slow when a blade cut through the air, the metal singing in a downward slash that ruffled the tips of Jaskier’s hair. Black blood sprayed like a geyser when the sword hit its mark, Geralt’s blade cleaving through the Warg’s open maw, expertly detaching it’s head.

The mother was the first to emerge from the forest, wrapping the trembling boy into a tight hug, the father and daughter not far behind. Jaskier smiled warmly at the display of affection, his attention quickly redirected to Geralt when the scowling Witcher grabbed his arm. The Bard grimaced at the ripped fabric, and - Geralt being the worry wort he was - took the expression as a pained one. The Witcher’s hold loosened, features pinching with worry.

“I’m perfectly fine my dear, just mourning my third favorite doublet.” Geralt’s molten eyes narrowed at him, dubious. Jaskier snorted at the Witcher’s skepticism, easily shrugging off Geralt’s grip to squirm out of the jacket. The musician then offered his arm to the Witcher, Geralt carefully taking the limb in his grip to thoroughly examine. The Witcher’s rigid posture eased when he saw that the shirt beneath the doublet was still intact, Geralt releasing Jaskier’s arm with a relieved breath.

When the family separated from their group hug, the parents immediately made their way over to the Witcher and his Bard, thanking the duo profusely. The couple regretfully informed them that they had no spare money to offer, which was ridiculous because they certainly weren’t expecting a reward. Geralt left Jaskier to do the talking, marching away to take care of clean-up. He dragged what remained of the horse to the side of the road, then proceeded to slice open the Warg’s belly with the jeweled dagger that used to belong to Jaskier.

The Bard winced when putrid blood and pink intestines spilled over the Witcher’s hand, dirtying the  _ expensive _ knife. Geralt glanced over, his lips twitching when he took in the Bard’s thoroughly disgusted expression. As payback, Jaskier offered Roach as a temporary replacement seeing as the family’s second horse had been mutilated. In return, they would give them a lift to the next town where they could all go their separate ways.

The couple was eager to agree to the arrangement, and Jaskier wandered over to Roach, pulling off their supplies to load them into the back of the wagon. The Bard startled when he heard a familiar growl that was followed by a yelp. Jaskier abandoned his task, sprinting to the front of the cart. Geralt’s fangs were bared, hand gripping Roach’s reins so tight that his knuckles were white. The man - Hugh - was standing to the side, hands held up in a placating gesture.

“This is all just a big miscommunication.” Jaskier hurried over to the Witcher, who easily surrendered Roach to him when he took the reins. Geralt’s gaze followed the musician as he led the mare to the empty space beside the second horse, Hugh cautiously creeping closer to hook Roach up to the wagon. “I took it upon myself to offer Roach’s services in return for a ride to the nearest town. I hope that’s alright?” Jaskier was suddenly uncertain of his decision, he probably should’ve consulted Geralt first, Roach was _ his horse _ after all.

“...Of course. Just tell me next time.” Geralt grunted, and the Bard’s heart soared.  _ Next time _ implied that Jaskier would be able to decide their course of action in the future, and that the Witcher was fine with him doing so. The musician couldn’t help the bright smile that stretched across his lips, Geralt’s expression softening at the sight of Jaskier’s delighted grin. The Bard reached out to squeeze the Witcher’s shoulder in silent gratitude when Geralt passed, heading to the back of the wagon to finish packing everything.

Sometimes Jaskier forgot that Geralt wasn’t exactly human and he was reminded - like a slap to the face - when things like this happened. While Hugh coaxed the horses forward, Geralt was at the back of the wagon, the Witcher’s biceps bulging pleasingly as he single-handedly shoved until the wheels came off the soft soil and hit hard dirt. Once back on the road, the six of them settled in for their two-day journey. Which brought Jaskier to where he was currently, watching Geralt follow and the Witcher merely staring back. 

Jaskier was startled out of his thoughts by a line of his current poem being read out loud to him. “ _ On my delicious flesh he gorged, laid out before him like a feast. _ ” Jaskier froze, ink dripping onto the page as he stared down blankly. “ _ Poised above me with his mighty pale sword, he slayed my inner beast? _ ” He broke out of his daze, swiveling around to see the young girl crouched behind him, staring at the parchment with a confused frown. “Whatever does that mean, bardling?” She questioned curiously. The Bard's face heated and he subtly turned to chance a look at Geralt, who had one eyebrow raised in amusement.

“It’s a uh, metaphor for, um...sex.” Jaskier chokes out in a whisper, hoping that neither her family nor the Witcher would hear, but he knew that the latter was a lost cause. He heard Geralt snort and ignored him in favor of watching the girl flush a light pink, nothing compared to his own - no doubt - brightly colored face. “Oh my.” She stuttered and, with one last glance between the parchment and Jaskier, she moved away to go back to her sewing. The Bard released a breath, disregarding Geralt’s quiet chuckle. Jaskier hunched over his paper, scribbling furiously in an attempt to tune out the rare happy sound. It was at his expense after all. He’d just been outed writing soft porn right in front of the Witcher.

When they stopped for the night, Geralt and Jaskier set up camp on the right side of the fire-pit while Hugh and his family took the left. It was a warm night so the musician used only his cloak as a blanket, tangling himself up in the silky cloth before settling onto the bedroll to watch Geralt fiddle with the polished lark broach as the Witcher examined his silver blade with a frown. The Bard sat up and ran a careful hand across the blade until he reached a nick in the metal. 

“Silver is a soft metal, easily breakable with the right amount of force.” Geralt explained, still staring at where Jaskier’s nimble fingers were curiously moving over the chipped area. “Must’ve been one hell of a swing.” Jaskier chirped, flashing the Witcher a wide grin before settling back onto his mat. The attempt to take Geralt’s mind off the damaged weapon appeared to have worked for the time being, the Witcher watching him with a soft look before sliding the sword back into its sheath. 

With one last touch to the gifted broach, the Witcher laid down onto his bedroll and closed his eyes to meditate.

*** * ***

The Bard startled awake when hands abruptly yanked him out of bed and into a familiar hulking frame. Still bleary with sleep, it took Jaskier a moment to put together what was happening. He looked down Geralt’s iron blade to see Matilda, the daughter, pulling herself up into a sitting position as if she’d been shoved. Jaskier's eyes slid over to his spilled bag, frowning when he realized that it had obviously been tampered with. “I’m sorry. It’s just…I was looking for your writing?” The girl squirmed, now flushed a bright red and eyes watery. 

“Please don’t tell my parents. This is so embarrassing. I was going to give it back, I only meant to borrow it.” Her voice became small, as if saying it out loud only made it seem that much more ridiculous. Jaskier shut his gaping mouth with a click, having pity on the poor girl. He squirmed out of the Witcher’s grasp, a low rumble following his departure from safety, and dug through his bag. After a short moment of searching, he retrieved the paper and handed it to her. She stared at him as he stood, offering a hand to help the girl to her feet. 

He brushed the accumulated dirt off her nightgown before steering the dazed teenager back to her side of the dim firepit. “You can keep it. I’m not happy with the piece anyways and it’s better in the hands of someone who appreciates it.” He leveled her uncertain expression with a reassuring smile, which she shyly returned before hurrying back to her bedroll. The second Jaskier was back within grabbing range, Geralt dragged him in, curling around the Bard with one hand still wrapped around the sword hilt. The Bard didn’t comment on the action, knowing that pointing it out would only succeed in causing Geralt to close off.

The next day Jaskier caught the Witcher glaring daggers at the girl, as if by stare alone he could force her to drop dead. The Bard took Geralt’s hostility as his cue to distract the Witcher from whatever had rubbed him the wrong way, he drew Geralt out of his brooding by sticking close to the Witcher, talking about anything and everything. And, by the time they made it to the busy town, Geralt was comfortably loose again and they parted from the kind family on good terms.

Once their supplies were refastened to Roach’s saddle, the Witcher started off in a seemingly random direction. Jaskier hummed an upbeat tune as they walked, the musician's shoulder occasionally bumping into Geralt’s. “Where are we heading?” Jaskier questioned, curious about the Witcher’s plans when he realized that Geralt was leading them further into town. “The Inn, I have a few errands to run before we can leave.” The Witcher grunted, his molten eyes sliding over to his sheathed silver blade.

“Ah, yes. Your sword  _ does _ need to be repaired, or you can’t take contracts.” Jaskier mused, briefly wondering what other errands the Witcher needed to take care of before ultimately deciding that the silver blade was the top priority. “Shall I take it to the blacksmith for you? You wouldn’t have to worry about the sword while you're running about, I’ll make sure nothing happens to it.” The Bard vowed, trailing after Geralt as he led Roach into the stables next to the Inn, depositing her into a stall.

“...Alright.” The Witcher rumbled, unlatching the sheathed weapon from the saddle to hand it off. The Bard eagerly accepted the sword, surprised to find that it was heavier than Geralt’s iron blade. Jaskier smiled at the lark broach, chest warming at the sight of it on the Witcher’s blade. He used this sword against horrid monsters, and the Bard had wanted to give Geralt something to remind him that Jaskier would always be anxiously awaiting his safe return. The musician had given the Witcher the shiny trinket as a good-luck charm, as childish as that was.

“Stay out of trouble.” Geralt looked terribly fond, the expression never failed to make Jaskier insides warm. He managed a nod, nose scrunching when the Witcher grabbed his wretched stained bag of horrors. “Yes, well, I’ll try my best.” The Bard held out his hand when Geralt motioned for him to do so, the Witcher dropping a handful of coin onto his palm. “This should cover the cost. If it doesn't, pay the remainder and I’ll return whatever I owe after my next contract.” Jaskier nodded, even though he knew that he wouldn’t be telling Geralt if he used some of his own coin to help repair the blade.

The Witcher had a bad habit of insisting on paying for everything.

When Jaskier had asked about it, the Witcher had told him that it was an instinct thing and that he could stop if it was bothering the Bard. The musician had considered telling him it wasn’t necessary until he actually made direct eye-contact with Geralt, the Witcher had looked like he was in  _ physical pain _ at the prospect of Jaskier denying him this odd behavior. In the end, the Bard caved and kept his mouth shut, assuring Geralt that it was fine.

And Jaskier knew that he was  _ beyond _ screwed when the Witcher lit up like a damn forest fire.

Jaskier found the market easy enough seeing as all the roads seemed to be leading directly into the heart of the town, where the massive marketplace was located. He was quickly distracted from his mission by the many eye-catching booths lining the street, his fingers itching to get a closer look. He had some time to spare before Geralt expected him back at the stables, so he strapped the sword across his back, leaving his hands free to touch.

He was having a lovely conversation with a candle-maker when a group of about eight rowdy men stumbled past, laughing loudly and shoving at one another. He saw two of them chatting quietly towards the back, one subtly pointing at a fashionably dressed maiden a few booths down from his. As they passed him, he made sure to look busy, but kept his attention firmly on the group. The musician watched as the same pair from before noticed him. One nudging the other and jerking a chin at the colorful Bard.

Jaskier accidentally made eye contact with them, quickly redirecting his uneasy gaze to the ground. The Bard got a bad feeling upon seeing them and decided to cut his visit short and find the blacksmith. He set the emerald green candle back onto the tabletop before starting off in the opposite direction the group went, wanting to avoid the chances of a confrontation. Thankfully, the Bard happened to stumble across the correct stall after just a few minutes of wandering.

He was haggling with the blacksmith when it all went down.

The screaming started, people rushing past in a panicked herd as the immediate area cleared out. The same eight men he’d seen earlier were swinging around swords and daggers, threatening to kill anyone who didn’t give up their valuables. He could recall the exact moment they spot and recognize him. Considering what he usually wore, he was really hard  _ not _ to notice or remember. Which usually helped in his profession, but now just made him regret wearing a deep violet.

He winced, the blacksmith making himself scarce as the pair from earlier approached Jaskier with matching grins. “Hello good sir. That blade looks a little heavy for you, why don’t you let us take it off your hands?” The man talking had a scar starting just above his eyebrow that stretched all the way down to his mouth. Jaskier dubbed the man ‘Scarface’ and his friend ‘Mouth Breather’, since the Bard could hear, and unfortunately smell, the man’s every breath from where he stood.

“It’s actually not my sword. It belongs to a friend of mine, so I’m afraid I can’t just hand it off.” Jaskier’s grip on the sheath strap across his chest tightened, knuckles going white as he tried to talk himself out of the shit situation. Scarface’s patience was rapidly wearing thin, the thug expertly twiddling with the dagger that was poised between his fingers. The bastard was trying to  _ intimidate _ him into surrendering Geralt’s precious blade, too bad Jaskier was used to such displays, courtesy of his lovely Witcher of course.

“Give us the sword.” Mouth Breather demanded, taking a menacing step forward, reminding Jaskier  _ exactly _ how outmatched he was against these people. The longer they stood there in tense silence, the more curious their buddies became. By the time Jaskier decided to make a move, there were five men surrounding him.

The Bard removed the weapon from his back, leaving the sheath on for now, and stepped closer with the sword held out to Scarface. The man looked taken aback by the lack of climax after the buildup, but reached forward for the blade regardless. “Okay, sure. No need to get violent-” Jaskier cut himself off by lashing out, adjusting his grip on the hilt to drive the end of it violently into the thug’s temple.

Scarface’s dark eyes roll up so the white’s show, swaying oddly before going down hard. When he doesn’t move again Jaskier darts away, ducking under the arm of Mouth Breather trying to grab him, prancing back until he can see all seven remaining men in front of him. He tightened his grip on the sword hilt and sprang forward, catching a man with four teeth off guard. He dubbed the disgusting fuck, ‘Smiles’. Jaskier hit the back of the man’s knees with the flat of the blade, bringing the fucker down to a more manageable height. 

The Bard twirled around him, dodging grabbing hands, using the sheathed tip of the sword to kick dirt up into Smiles eyes. The man dropped his own blade in favor of rubbing at his agitated face. Jaskier used his distracted state to drive a knee into his nose, Smiles sprawled out onto the ground with a yowl of pain as blood gushed from the broken appendage. Jaskier made for another robber, but was suddenly halted and hauled away by the back of his sleeveless doublet. In a panic, he shrugged out of the jacket, leaving Mouth Breather with only a scrap of clothing as the Bard scrambled a safe distance away.

Left in only his lilac tunic, Jaskier warily watched the six men circle him, trying to find a way past his defenses. He steeled himself, sword still held idly at his side. He couldn’t go on much longer, the sword really was too heavy for him to wield. His muscles were much more used to thin fencing blades, and he was tiring quickly. As if able to read it from his body language, Mouth Breather appeared to catch onto the Bard’s hesitation, rushing him.

The thug threw a punch, the thick ring on his finger slicing open the skin just above Jaskier’s eyebrow, the Bard’s vision tinged red as crimson gushed into his right eye. Jaskier stumbled back, losing his grip on the sword, hand flying up to prod blindly at the cut. He recalled when Geralt had told him head wounds bleed a lot whether it was as minor as a tiny cut or as severe as a skull fracture. He just hoped that it was nothing serious. The Bard looked up in time to see the fist come at his face a second time, his head snapping to the side. The musician’s mouth flooded with the taste of iron, he grimaced at the unsavory flavor.

Even though his ears began to ring, he still managed to stay on his feet, knowing that going down would be so much worse. He thought he heard someone yelling, but then there was the glint of metal and Jaskier jerked his head to the right, a line of fire erupting from his left cheek and ear. The shock caused the Bard to lose his footing and collapse to the ground. There was a deep growl originating from nearby and he tensed, thinking that a rabid dog smelt the blood and was going to join in on the Jaskier bashing but - after thinking about it for a moment - the Bard found the enraged snarl familiar.

*** * ***

Geralt waited at the stables for a total of five minutes before deciding to look for the Bard seeing as the Witcher had finished all his errands already, Jaskier would probably appreciate the company anyway. Not to mention that the musician got distracted ridiculously easy, some pretty trinket or fair maiden had surely caught his attention. Geralt’s stomach churned at the thought of some woman whisking the Bard away to go fool around, he wasn’t sure why the notion upset him though. Jaskier could do what he pleased with his time, the Witcher didn’t own him.

With his mood significantly soured, Geralt made his way into the market. He ignored the wary and hateful stares with practiced nonchalance, features set into a scowl that never failed to have everyone but a certain Bard keeping their distance. The Witcher slowed to a cautious halt when he heard screaming, a crowd of terrified townspeople rushing by in a blind panic, driven only by the animal instinct to get away. It couldn’t mean anything good, and Jaskier was in there somewhere.

Geralt grabbed the forearm of a woman who was sprinting by, coldly demanding an explanation. She resisted, struggling in his bruising grip until the Witcher dragged her closer with an impatient snarl. If it was even possible, her face seemed to pale even further and she tripped over her words. Apparently, the more well-off citizens in the market were being threatened by a group of bandits.

The Witcher released the woman, numbly watching her scramble away. Jaskier had been wearing a purple doublet, and with the sword, he certainly would’ve  _ looked _ like some kind of lord. A lump of... _ something _ lodged in his throat, making it hard to swallow. He unsheathed his steel blade, his steps rapidly speeding up until he was tearing through the streets. The only people around at this point were stragglers, so it was relatively easy to navigate his way to the blacksmith.

Geralt carefully slowed when he registered raised voices, blood humming as he prowled closer to the source of the commotion. He crept around a corner, heart skipping a beat when he saw Jaskier. The Bard’s face was wet with blood, and he rubbed at his face in a vain attempt to clear his eyes. Geralt’s teeth gnashed together when one of the Bandits threw a punch at the distracted musician, causing him to stumble back with a hiss. The Witcher’s keen gaze swept over the six men that circled Jaskier, absentmindedly taking account of their two fallen comrades.

Geralt stepped out from behind the booth, baring his teeth at the first thug that noticed him. The bastard’s eyes widened in alarm, turning to try and warn the others about the new arrival. The Witcher’s lungs stalled at the glint of a knife, the man closest to Jaskier lashing out with the blade. The Witcher lurched into action, the Bard’s name falling from his lips. The warning came too late, the knife slashed across Jaskier’s face and the Bard went down in a heap.

Geralt firmly placed himself between the group and the panting musician, a low growl vibrating in his chest. “Holy shit, it’s the Butcher.” One thug choked out, flinching away when the Witcher snapped his fangs at the man. Recognition dawned on the bandit's faces, and they nervously shuffled back a few steps. The suicidal fuck who had tried to take out the Bard’s eye boldly stood his ground under Geralt’s fierce sneer. “It’s one against six, he’s outnumbered.” The pig’s buddies seemed to be encouraged by his brazen words, moving to flank the asshole.

The swine proceeded to brandish a familiar sword at the Witcher,  _ his _ sword. The fucker was threatening Geralt with his own silver blade, which he’d given to Jaskier. The Bard wouldn’t have surrendered it easily, he had promised to take care of it. The musician would be  _ devastated _ by his apparent failure to keep his word, it would take  _ days _ for Geralt to get him to crack a smile. The Witcher’s vision flashed red, his control slipping from his grasp like sand.

Later, Geralt wouldn’t be able to tell Jaskier who moved first. He was consumed by a crimson haze, cutting down anyone who got between him and his target. Within the span of three minutes, it was just him and the pig who’d attempted to take his better half away from him. Geralt was relentless, their blades connecting with violent sparks. His hilt rattled uncomfortably in his grasp with the force put behind each swing, he ignored it.

The pig was quite good with a blade, but human stamina couldn’t hold a candle to a Witcher’s. But Geralt didn’t want to wait until the man fucked up, he was in a rush to get to Jaskier. He had to find a way into the bastard’s defenses, but he wasn’t in the right mind to think up a strategy. Sunlight glinted off the silver blade, drawing Geralt’s eyes to the tiny chip in the metal. A weak spot. His resulting grin had to be manic as he recalled Jaskier words from last night.

_ “Must’ve been one hell of a swing.” _

The Witcher used every ounce of power he had in his movement, the edge of his blade catching dead center on the notch and ripping through, shattering the metal. Geralt pirouetted and thrust his steel into the swine’s gut, twisting for good measure. The fucker choked on his own blood, fingers going limp on what was left of Geralt’s sword, the hilt slipping from the pig’s grip.

The Witcher’s wild gaze was drawn to the lark broach on the handle as he pulled the blade out, the man crumpling to the dirt. Geralt gently removed the trinket, carefully tucking it into a pocket before rushing over to where Jaskier was sitting, the Bard using his trampled doublet to mop up some of the blood that coated his face.

“Are you alright?” Geralt squatted down next to the musician, tilting Jaskier’s chin up in order to check for pupil dilation, swelling, and bruising. The musician allowed it, wincing when the Witcher thumbed at the nick in his ear. “Nothing worse than cuts and bruises.” Jaskier mumbled, reaching up to fiddle with one of Geralt’s silver studs. The Bard’s thundering heart began to slow as he played with the jewelry, twisting it this way and that. The Witcher shifted closer to give Jaskier easier access to the earring, only pulling away when the musician’s hand dropped back to his side.

“Did you grab your sword?” The Bard inquired, his neck craning when Geralt stood to offer Jaskier a hand up. The musician’s curious gaze took in the eight bodies that were lying about, but he still laced his fingers with Geralt’s. The Witcher’s chest tightened at the easy trust Jaskier gave him, effortlessly hauling the Bard to his feet. When the musician finally laid eyes on the shattered weapon, his face crumpled. “Oh no…” He breathed, moving toward the ruined blade. The Bard squeaked when Geralt grabbed his shoulders, spinning Jaskier so they were face-to-face.

“If this  _ ever _ happens again and I’m not there, just give them what they want.” Jaskier opened his mouth, probably to argue, but Geralt shut him down. “Anything else I have is replaceable, _ you _ are not.” The Bard stared at him for a long moment before nodding, his cornflower blue eyes wide. The Witcher released Jaskier, but kept one of his hands pressed between the Bard’s shoulder-blades. He glanced at the morose musician when he recalled that there were two downed bandits when he’d arrived and, after a brief pause, added:

“You handled that well. Good job.” Any embarrassment or anxiety that might’ve bubbled up at saying the words aloud disappeared when a bright smile broke out onto Jaskier’s face, filling Geralt’s chest with warmth.


	15. May God Have Mercy On His Enemies (Cause He Won't)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier stopped in the hallway and dragged the tags out of his pocket, arms suddenly feeling like lead as he brought them up in front of him. Somehow, the writing had become smudged since he'd gotten them. He squinted and rubbed at the ink, but it didn’t help the numbers look any less blurry. His eyes bounced between the doors and the tags as he passed, just deciding to try matching the vague blotches, hoping that the universe had mercy on him.
> 
> Fortunately, he did get lucky when he came across a door with the right amount of lines and circles in the correct places. He tried the key and the door swung open before him. He was closer to the stairway then he remembered being before, but didn't question the observation too much. He lazily pushed the door shut behind him, not bothering to check if it was closed before collapsing face first into the straw-stuffed bedding with a groan of approval.

"Wait...so, which room is mine?" Jaskier asked for the umpteenth time as he played with the numbered tags that Geralt had tossed at him. The Witcher merely scowled at him before snatching up his  _ sixth _ tankard when it was placed in front of him, clearly unhappy about their sleeping arrangement.

The current town that they were in had heard the songs about the infamous White Wolf and, as a result, they were very accommodating. In return for taking care of their monster, the Witcher got paid the full bounty on top of rooms for cheap - which was why they weren't sharing for once - as well as free ale.

“Geralt, we talked about this. You said it was fine, so why are you all grumpy about it?” Jaskier diligently started on his second ale, frowning at the tetchy Witcher. Geralt sucked in a deep breath, the tension draining from his body when he exhaled. “I know.” The Witcher mumbled, tipping the tankard back to finish his liquor in three huge gulps.

Geralt set the empty cup back onto the table before sliding his half-eaten plate to Jaskier, a silent apology for his earlier hostility. The musician beamed at the Witcher, letting Geralt know that he was  _ very much _ forgiven. “I’m going to get ready for the hunt.” The Witcher grunted, but before he could retreat, Jaskier beckoned him closer with a crooked finger. Geralt obediently heeded the Bard’s wordless request, bending down when the musician took a lock of the Witcher’s snow white hair.

“Make sure you come back.” Jaskier murmured, lightly tugging on the strand he had pinched between his nimble fingers. Geralt’s answering grunt was wholly unhelpful, the Witcher moving away when the Bard released his hair. The musician’s worried frown pulled at the fresh pink line on his cheek, making the healing flesh smart. Of course Geralt couldn’t promise to come back, because there was always a chance - no matter how slight it may be - that he  _ wouldn’t. _

The thought made a thick lump of fear lodge in his esophagus, his dinner churning uneasily in his stomach. There was no doubt in his mind that Geralt’s death would break him beyond repair, the stubborn Witcher had made himself at home in Jaskier’s heart. The Bard had never had someone care for him so fiercely before, even in those first few weeks of their tentative friendship the Witcher was looking out for him.

Jaskier was always the giver in his previous relationships, his partner taking and  _ taking _ until they inevitably emptied him. It always ended with the Bard getting tossed aside, feeling hollow and used. But with Geralt it was different, the Witcher  _ gave back. _ He told Jaskier about his training at Kaer Morhen, about the monsters he hunted, about himself and his brothers, voluntarily giving the Bard pieces of himself.

The musician was already used to receiving gifts, having accepted hundreds of useless little trinkets and jewelry. Unfortunately, that was what they were,  _ useless. _ But, again, the Witcher was different. He’d gotten Jaskier a warm cloak for the winter months, and had pierced his ears for the Bard because of a comment he’d made in passing. The musician hadn’t been as bold as to buy Geralt any earrings though, so the silver studs stayed. Jaskier would be lying if he said the Witcher didn’t look stunning in them, not to mention that fiddling with them was a sure way to calm himself down whenever he was feeling overwhelmed.

He was brought out his musings when a barmaid set another frothing cup of ale in front of him, he blinked at the sloshing liquid owlishly for a moment before lifting his head. The Witcher had already made himself scarce, leaving Jaskier to his own devices. They hadn’t even exchanged a proper goodbye like they usually did, which just proved that Geralt was more upset about their separate rooms then he let on. Jaskier might’ve considered giving up the second room if he’d gotten a straight answer out of the Witcher.

But Geralt skirted around the subject of why he was so insistent about them sharing, mostly by outright ignoring Jaskier’s questions on the matter. So the Bard had stubbornly kept the room, unwilling to let the Witcher bully him into giving up his chance to have his own space for reasons that Geralt wouldn’t disclose. It was obvious to the Witcher that Jaskier was trying to force Geralt into fessing up about what the big deal was, which didn’t exactly help the uncomfortable tension that hung over them.

He bitterly chugged down the third tankard, the fourth following in a similar manner. By the fifth, he was feeling all warm and fuzzy. "I deserve this." he declared, thrusting his cup up into the air as if he were toasting himself. "I mean, I  _ am _ the reason we're getting all this good fortune." He slurred happily, grabbing for the full cup of ale that’d magically appeared before him. Though, as thoroughly inebriated as he was, it took him a few tries to succeed. 

He snickered at his own clumsiness and decided that he wanted to share his amusement with Geralt, but his voice came out much too loud. "Shhh!" He scolded, frowning down at his reflection in the golden liquor. "Geralt doesn't like it when you're loud. It hurts his ear holes." Jaskier continued seriously, glancing up when he heard laughter. A beautiful angel was smiling at him, her forest green eyes shining with mirth.

"Oh, that’s sweet of ya, but I'm no angel." The busty woman winked at him and he wondered if he said that out loud. "Asking after that fair-haired Witcher, are ya?" She asked kindly, setting a bowl of warm beef stew and fluffy bread before him. He enthusiastically nodded as he attempted to grab one of his spoons, though he wasn't sure why exactly he needed three of them. He blinked and, thankfully, the trio of utensils merged into one.

"He left about half an hour ago. He tried to get your attention, but ya just kept on about how different types of ink caress paper. It got pretty erotic before the poor lad gave up and asked me to look after ya." She gave him a playful smile, but Jaskier couldn't seem to manage one in return. His spoon frozen in the space between his bowl and mouth, his brain stalled on the dreaded words:

_ He left. _

Water slipped from his eye, dripping into his bowl of stew that now tasted like ash in his mouth. The woman was quick to occupy the seat on the bench next to him and pull the smaller man to her soft bosom, petting his hair as she cooed at him. His hiccupping sobs combined with the woman's soothing voice slowly drew more motherly women to his table. And, before he knew it, he was surrounded by calming voices and caressing hands as he sniffled. 

It was a situation he would usually be thrilled to be in, but was drowned out by the fact that Geralt had left without a word. Was the Witcher really so upset with the Bard that he would just head out without so much as a farewell? Eventually, the several lovely ladies managed to convince him that the Witcher surely wasn’t angry with him and would tell him so as soon as he returned.

They fed him his bread and soup until every scrap was consumed and Jaskier was sleepy. The bout of crying combined with drink and a full stomach made him tired. The angel led him away from the others and toward the stairs after noticing his several jaw-cracking yawns. He turned at the base and gave the woman a sloppy kiss on the cheek in thanks. She laughed, crows-feet deepening with her easy smile.

"M'lady, I can take it fr'm here." He tried to bow like a gentleman, but he tipped a bit too far forward and she was forced to catch and straighten the Bard. She kept a keen eye on him as he climbed the stairs, waiting until he turned the corner and stumbled out of sight before shaking her head with a grin, going back to cleaning tables.

Jaskier stopped in the hallway and dragged the tags out of his pocket, arms suddenly feeling like lead as he brought them up in front of him. Somehow, the writing had become smudged since he'd gotten them. He squinted and rubbed at the ink, but it didn’t help the numbers look any less blurry. His eyes bounced between the doors and the tags as he passed, just deciding to try matching the vague blotches, hoping that the universe had mercy on him.

Fortunately, he did get lucky when he came across a door with the right amount of lines and circles in the correct places. He tried the key and the door swung open before him. He was closer to the stairway then he remembered being before, but didn't question the observation too much. He lazily pushed the door shut behind him, not bothering to check if it was closed before collapsing face first into the straw-stuffed bedding with a groan of approval.

* * *

The Witcher came back to a darkened tavern and, upon entering, was greeted by the busty barmaid he'd talked to earlier that day. She was mopping the floors and, at the creak of the door, had turned around. She smiled softly at him - which was something that he was only used to receiving from Jaskier - and set an ale down in front of Geralt when he planted himself at a random table.

"That Bard is absolutely taken with ya, ya know." She started conversationally, taking a seat across from the fearsome Witcher. Geralt almost choked on his mouthful at the words, swallowing painfully before leveling her with a blank, uncomprehending stare. "What?" He stated when it didn't look like she'd elaborate more without a little prompting, and she gave him that smile again, like he was someone  _ worthy _ of kindness.

She reached out in an attempt to place a comforting hand atop his, but he harshly jerked his own away, placing them in his lap so she couldn’t get to them. The thought of having her scent on him, of her spicy cider aroma overpowering Jaskier’s own fading rain and honey, had his hackles rising. Instead of being insulted, she just smiled at him again, returning her hands to her own personal space.

“When I told him you’d left, he just started sobbing. The poor thing was so upset.” Geralt shoved out of the chair, the legs scraping across the floor with a jarring squeal. A weight settled in his stomach at the statement, his molten eyes darting to the staircase. “He’s fine now, went to sleep the liquor off.” She reassured, gesturing at the seat he’d just vacated in a bid for him to sit back down. He had no idea why, but he  _ listened _ , lowering himself back down onto the furniture.

“Why was he upset about me leaving? I told him I was preparing for the contract.” The Witcher haltingly asked, shifting his focus onto her steady heartbeat. He’d kill her if she lied, but only after prying the truth out of her. And if he learned that she was covering for someone who had dared hurt his Bard, he would do unspeakable things to anyone who was involved.

The itch to go check on Jaskier was steadily growing harder and harder to resist, his impatience must’ve shown on his face because the barmaid stumbled over her words in her haste to explain. “He...he was babbling about how you’d left without saying goodbye, went on about how you two have some sort of...of special thing ya do?” She fidgeted with her apron, warily eyeing him for the first time since his arrival. Thankfully for her, the organ in her chest kept a steady rhythm, confirming that she wasn’t attempting to deceive him.

But that would mean that he’d managed to hurt Jaskier again, even after promising himself that he’d never be the reason the Bard was distressed. Geralt pushed out of his seat, grateful that she didn’t try to stop him this time. His instincts would have insisted she was trying to keep him from Jaskier and he’d respond accordingly, lashing out at the perceived threat. The last thing he needed was a body to take care of, he wasn’t in the mood to go through the painstaking process of covering up a murder.

Geralt took the stairs three at a time, keeping his steps near silent. His eyes adjusted to the pale rays of moonlight that the window at the end of the hall offered, his surroundings coming into stark clarity within a second or so. The Witcher’s golden pools narrowed when he noticed that the door to his room was cracked open, and cautiously prowled closer. His fingers curled around the hilt of his iron sword and he nudged the wooden obstruction open wider, frowning in confusion when his nose was hit with a potent wave of spruce and rain.

Jaskier had either been in his room as recently as five minutes ago, or he was the supposed intruder. The barmaid  _ had _ mentioned that the musician was plenty sloshed when he’d retired for the night, so it wasn’t a stretch to surmise that Jaskier had forgotten to shut the door properly. Geralt huffed out a breath, his hand moving away from his blade as he shouldered in. He blinked against the abrupt decrease in visibility until he could make out the Bard’s haphazardly sprawled form, the human’s limbs hanging off the bed.

The Witcher lurked for a moment, basking in the surge of relief that came with seeing the Bard safe and unharmed. He took extra care to shut the door quietly before approaching the bed, unwilling to rouse the musician from his peaceful slumber. Geralt knelt beside Jaskier’s dangling foot, scowling at the fancy boots that still adorned his - no doubt - aching feet. One of the Witcher’s hands cupped the Bard’s calf, the other wrapping around the boot to gently tug Jaskier’s appendage out of the leather confines. He placed the boot aside, diligently repeating the process with the other foot.

The Bard remained sound asleep when Geralt moved on to the doublet, keeping his touch light as he maneuvered Jaskier out of the brightly colored garment. The Witcher deposited the bundle of cloth onto the nightstand beside the bed before wrestling the blankets out from under the musician, tucking the human in. He stepped back to look over the end result with a critical eye, adjusting the covers where necessary. Geralt’s hand hesitantly reached out to swipe over Jaskier’s forehead, calloused fingers sliding up to card through soft brown locks.

The Bard nuzzled into the careful touch with a content hum, which gave Geralt the confidence to indulge the instinct to let his hand linger. Jaskier’s skin was warm against his palm, slowly heating the Witcher’s chilled flesh as his body leeched the heat from the Bard’s. Geralt briefly considered just climbing into bed with him for all of five seconds before immediately discarding the thought, the musician would be  _ furious _ upon waking up to find the Witcher beside him. 

Jaskier had been very clear about his desire to sleep separately despite Geralt’s reluctance, just thinking about the distance that would be between them made the Witcher twitchy. But it couldn’t be helped, Geralt could deny his better half nothing. So he extracted his hand, lamenting the absence of that addictive warmth against his skin. Jaskier shifted, his arm coming out from beneath the swathe of blankets in a sleepy grab for the retreating limb. 

The Witcher froze, convinced that he’d somehow pulled the Bard from his dreams. But his eyes were still closed, his breathing and heartbeat measured. Geralt slowly moved to his pile of supplies, retrieving his bag of potions. The bottles clinked against one another softly when he lifted it into the cradle of his arms, he couldn’t help but look at the Bard’s peaceful face one last time before he snatched up both keys and stepped out of the room.

He locked the door, twisting the handle to confirm that no one would be able to just walk in on the vulnerable human. The Bard hadn’t even stirred when Geralt moved him around, and with the Witcher three rooms down, Jaskier was completely defenseless. His grip on the knob went white-knuckle tight, the metal creaking beneath the cruel curl of his fingers. Geralt slumped forward, his forehead pressing into the wood. The Bard would throw a fit if the Witcher decided to spend the night in the room, even if it wasn’t sleeping in the bed with him.

He didn’t want to make Jaskier angry, so he forced his hand to relax around the abused handle before wrenching himself away from the door. He clutched the potion bag with both hands to discourage them from grabbing the key, because then he’d fold and let himself into the room and stay with Jaskier through the night, consequences be damned.

*** * ***

Jaskier cracked an eye open, groggily blinking up at the dark silhouette that hovered above him. For a moment, he thought it was Geralt, but then a beam of moonlight caught on the blade of a knife. Suddenly, the Bard was wide awake. His gaze frozen on the blade as the dark shadow raised the weapon, the sharp tip poised to strike his chest. He acted without thinking, jerking his legs up so he could plant both feet onto the assailant’s chest and  _ shove. _

The unwelcome visitor hit the floor with a loud thud, the blade clattering a distance away from the wheezing bastard that was apparently set on skewering him. He mentally went over all the lovely ladies and charming gentlemen he’d bedded in this particular town over the years as he scrambled out of bed, trying to puzzle out which angry spouse would be rich enough to send an assassin. As predicted, he came up blank.

Jaskier’s wild cornflower blue eyes bounced between the door, the shadow, and the knife. The stranger was already getting up, seeming to also be taking in the situation. The Bard wasn’t able to see his attacker’s face in the darkness, but he could tell that they were male based on their considerable build. The guy might’ve been taller than him too, so he had the advantage of strength. Jaskier wouldn’t be able to take him on and come out alive, and the shadow was closer to the knife than the Bard.

Which left one option.

The musician jerked into movement, making for the door as the stranger lurched forward to grab the knife. Jaskier was at the door when the assassin sprang up and lunged for him. The Bard managed to flip the latch and throw the wooden obstruction open before a hand grabbed a fistful of his tunic to yank him back, Jaskier flailing out to grab the frame. He twisted, using his free hand to catch the man’s wrist before the bastard could plunge the blade into his back. The musician’s arm trembled with the effort of keeping the knife away from his flesh, the limb quickly tiring.

Jaskier wouldn’t be able to hold the shadow back much longer, he could only pray that a certain Witcher had returned from his hunt. The Bard sucked in a breath, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. “GERALT!” His voice echoed through the hall, no doubt rousing multiple patrons from their slumber. And if the musician wasn’t mistaken, the assassin seemed to falter at the cry, as if confused. Jaskier didn’t know what about his call for help was so mystifying, any sane person who had a Witcher for a friend would surely yell for said friend.

Both Jaskier and the shadow startled at the sound of splintering of wood, the Bard craning his neck in order to get a look. He was just barely able to make out white hair, the color significantly dimmed by the dark. But there was no mistaking the Witcher’s eyes, the twin pools of melted gold looked like they were lit from the inside. The assassin’s trembling grip on his shirt went slack in what could only be a mixture of shock and fear, Jaskier jerking out of the loose hold. 

The movement seemed to snap the man out of his daze, the bastard desperately swiping at the musician's retreating form. Jaskier cursed when the assassin’s hand closed around his wrist, his shoulder jarring when the man roughly pulled his retreat to an abrupt halt. He spun to face the determined asshole, tripping over himself in his panic. The Bard tipped back, dragging the bastard with him. They fell onto the floor in a heap of flailing limbs, Jaskier yelping when his abdomen flared with white-hot pain.

The Bard heaved in gasping breaths, weakly pushing at the assassin's shoulders in a sorry attempt to get the man off. The shadow seemed happy enough to scramble to his feet and take off down the hall when an enraged snarl reverberated through the corridor, the man’s thundering steps fading as he flew down the stairs. "Do you know that guy?" Jaskier’s voice cracked halfway through the question, the musician dizzy with relief.

"You’re hurt." The Witcher grit out, his hands grabbing the hem of his own black tunic. Geralt roughly dragged the dark fabric over his head, putting all his pale, scarred flesh on display. Jaskier gazed at the expanse of rippling muscle dreamily before his attention was rudely yanked away by a sharp stab of agony, the Bard lazily glancing down at what Geralt was doing. The Witcher had the tight bundle of steadily darkening cloth pressed around the hilt of a knife, the blade buried in Jaskier’s side. 

Well, that explained why he felt so lightheaded.

"Oh, how did that get there?" He mused, frowning at the alarmed look Geralt leveled him with. Now that the Bard was aware of the wound, Jaskier realized that he was actually in a fair amount of pain. He startled when the door on their left hesitantly opened, a young woman poking her head out. The Witcher growled, somehow managing to keep pressure on the injury as he crawled over the Bard. Jaskier recognized the action as a defensive one, Geralt was using his own body as a shield. The lovely lady’s eyes nearly bulged out of her head when she spotted them, her face blanching when she noticed the knife hilt.

“If you don’t want to die, go to the Healer and bring them here.” Geralt rumbled, his blazing eyes briefly flicking up from the Bard to acknowledge the frozen woman. Jaskier shifted uncomfortably and hissed when the wound gave a particularly vicious throb, the Witcher’s coiled form going eerily still at the sound. “If you’re not downstairs in the next five seconds, I’m going to eviscerate you where you stand.”  _ That _ certainly got her moving, the lady all-but throwing herself from the room in her haste to carry out Geralt’s instructions.

“Don’t worry my dear, she’ll be back.” The effort of lifting his hand to the Witcher’s cheek drained most of the Bard’s depleting energy, closing his eyes for a short nap was beginning to sound more and more appealing as the seconds ticked by. “She won’t like what happens if she doesn’t.” Was all Geralt had to say on the matter of the lady’s return. Jaskier knew he should be scolding the Witcher for threatening the poor woman like he did, but the Bard was much too tired. Sleep settled over the musician like a physical weight, making his eyelids feel heavier than lead.

Jaskier’s eyes fluttered shut, his arm going limp. The Bard’s hand dropped from Geralt’s face, the numb appendage hitting the floor with a soft thud. He felt the Witcher tense, heard how Geralt’s next exhale trembled. “Jaskier?” The musician wanted nothing more than to reply, to reassure the Witcher that he was just going to rest for a moment. But he just couldn’t seem to muster up the energy to do so, his body was being terribly uncooperative. “Jaskier, don’t do this. Open your eyes.” Geralt choked out, his free hand curling around the back of the Bard’s neck to heave Jaskier up into a sitting position.

“I wasn’t angry with you earlier, I just-” The Witcher paused to rest his forehead against the musician’s, sucking in a deep breath. “It seems that I’ve grown used to sleeping beside you, and the thought of you being by yourself made me...nervous. Jaskier, you need to stay.  _ Please _ stay.” The Bard realized with no small amount of shock that Geralt was  _ begging, _ Jaskier couldn’t help but wonder if he was dead because the Witcher  _ didn't beg.  _ His dark musings were interrupted by the sound of hurried steps, Geralt’s growling kicking back up full-force.

“I brought the Healer, just like you asked.” A timid voice gasped, it was the lady from earlier. She sounded winded from running, and so did the person with her. “What kind of injury is it?” A distinctly male baritone panted, and Jaskier came to the sound conclusion that the second voice belonged to the Healer. “Knife, it went into the right side of his abdomen. As far as I can tell, it missed anything vital.” The Witcher sounded completely composed, as if he hadn’t just been pleading with Jaskier mere moments ago.

The consistent pressure against his side eased, leading the musician to believe that the Healer had removed Geralt’s wadded-up shirt. “You left it in, good. How long has he been unconscious?” The Healer asked, the Bard’s fingers twitching when the heavy press of fabric resumed. “He dropped off six minutes and twenty three seconds ago, he didn’t respond when I tried to wake him either.” The Witcher dutifully relayed, there was more shuffling before the sensitive skin between Jaskier’s fingers was pinched. The Bard flinched, whimpering when the knife was jostled.

“Do that again and I’ll pull your spine out through your throat.” Geralt snapped, his cool fingers soothing the lingering sting when they brushed over the abused area. After a tense moment of silence, the Healer spoke. “He’s aware to an extent, but he won’t be for long. We need to move him.” One of Geralt’s hands left the bundled cloth that was pressed over the injury, the limb curling around Jaskier’s back to easily heave him up as the Witcher effortlessly stood. The Bard desperately wished to see what expressions the lady and Healer were wearing, but he had to settle for the Healer’s spluttering.

“I...you...right. Yes. Follow me.”

* * *

The Witcher shoved out of the hut, leaving a bloody handprint smeared on the door. He was shaking, overwhelmed by the nauseating scent of Jaskier’s blood each time he inhaled. Red had flooded from the puncture as soon as the dagger was removed, rapidly staining the Bard’s tunic. Geralt’s lip twitched up into a snarl when he glanced at the knife that was clenched in one of his crimson hands, the vibrant color of the Bard’s blood just reminding him of the way Jaskier had  _ screamed _ when the wound was cauterized.

The musician had thrashed, forcing the Witcher to hold him down so the Healer could work with minimal flailing. The way the Bard had pleaded with him, watery eyes bright with pain as he writhed in Geralt’s unyielding grip. The scent of burning flesh had the Witcher’s stomach churning, Jaskier’s quiet whimpers for mercy were painful to ignore. Each shuddering sob had Geralt’s chest tightening, like someone had cracked his ribcage open and wrapped their hand around his heart to manually squeeze the life out of him.

The Witcher had leaned down to nuzzle Jaskier’s damp cheek, glowering at the Healer as if to dare him to comment on the intimate action. The man wisely remained silent. The Bard had gone distressingly limp as soon as the red hot iron was removed from his abused flesh, the musician’s breaths unsteady. Geralt maintained his hold on Jaskier even though the worst part of the treatment was over and done with, he could distantly hear the Healer concocting something behind him over the deafening hum in his ears.

“...ir.” Geralt took in the musician’s pale face, his furrowed brow was damp with sweat. The Witcher had nearly lost him, and this certainly wouldn’t be the last time his precious light would get a grievous injury. He’d gotten lucky this time, if it had taken him a mere  _ hour _ longer to find and slay the werewolf...Geralt would’ve returned to find a cooling corpse. “..sir?” The Witcher snapped back to himself, gritting out a terse  _ ‘what’ _ as he twisted to directly address the Healer.

The man held out the bloodied dagger, his lips pressed into a grim line. “This knife, I’ve seen it before.” Geralt’s eyes flashed at the confession, and he was on his feet in the time it took the Healer to blink. “Talk.” He growled, backing the skittish man into a table, causing the bottles of various potions atop the furniture to rattle. “It...it belongs to Lord Adwith. He refused to post a contract for that dreaded werewolf, forcing us commoners to scrounge together a reward.” The words were filled with bitter hatred, the Healer scowling at the weapon as if he could make the Lord drop dead if he glared at it hard enough.

Geralt understood the sentiment.

“Where does he live?” The Witcher shuffled back, no longer imposing his intimidating presence on the man. He had told Geralt about the dagger even though he wasn’t obligated to, and did so without expecting some sort of recompense no less. “You go right and just follow the road, it will take you to his keep.” The Healer gestured in the corresponding direction before going back to readjusting his disturbed potion bottles. The Witcher glanced between Jaskier and the door, conflicted. The more time he spent here, the more time he gave the Lord to flee.

“I’ll keep an eye on your friend, no further harm will come to him while in my home.” The man straightened his spine, Geralt’s medallion vibrating when a flare of magic rippled outward from the Healer. It seemed that the young lad was stronger then he looked, much like a certain Bard that he knew. The Healer didn’t cower away when the Witcher crowded back into the man’s personal space, but he did blink owlishly when Geralt offered his hand. The Healer hesitantly took the extended appendage, his jaw all-but dropping to the floor when the Witcher gave their clasped hands a firm shake.

“Thank you. I’ll be back around mid-morning to collect the Bard.” Geralt reached for the knife, advertising the fact that he wished to take it. The Healer released the weapon without question and watched the Witcher take his leave with a gobsmacked expression. Geralt hastily returned to the Inn to collect Roach and their things before riding out toward the Lord’s manor, arriving at the heavily guarded gate under the cover of relative darkness. The sky was starting to lighten as dawn approached, which meant that he had to strike quickly. He dismounted Roach, urging her off the road to impatiently wait for his return.

The soldiers hadn’t seen him yet, and he used that to his advantage. First, he found a rock, chucking it into the woods. It hit a tree with a loud crack, diverting their attention. Two of them cautiously made their way into the shadowed forest, leaving their comrades to the fate of having their necks snapped. He disposed of the other two in a similar manner when they returned, stealthily scaling the gate to make his way across the well-maintained lawn. It was almost embarrassingly easy to storm the manor, he was deep within the walls of the fortress before the alarm was sounded.

He leaned around a corner, taking in the massive golden doors with a raised brow. There were two guards posted outside, and he promptly used the first one’s armored head to knock. The second he kicked clean through the door, his furious eyes sweeping through the ballroom. Lord Adwith was seated on a throne that was adorned with precious jewels, the seat raised above the otherwise empty room. “The Butcher is here to see me,  _ splendid _ . What do you want, monster?” The Lord asked, tone condescending. Geralt didn’t give him the satisfaction of rising to the petty challenge, he knew that the man was absolutely terrified. 

He could  _ smell _ it.

He stepped closer until the distance between the two shrunk to about six feet before stopping, his approach making the Lord tense up in his chair. The Witcher reached to retrieve the unsheathed weapon that he’d secured to his hip, tossing it in the Lord’s direction. The crimson-stained knife hit the stone steps with a loud clatter that echoed in the large room, and Lord Adwith’s face blanched of color at the sight of the bloody dagger. “But...you’re not injured.” The Lord’s wild eyes jumped from the weapon to Geralt’s coiled form. The statement only had everything rapidly fitting into place. The assassin had been sent for  _ him, _ Jaskier just had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“You knew who the werewolf was, that’s why you didn’t want to post a contract.” Geralt intoned, relishing in the way Lord Adwith’s face twisted with grief. The vulnerable crack in the Lord’s demeanor was swiftly hidden away, covered up with anger. “Tell me, did the blade find its way into that tiresome Bard? Did the assassin put your whore out of his misery? Is that why you’re so upset?” The Lord hissed, lips curling into a cocky grin that showed off his stupid fucking perfect teeth. The Witcher dragged his iron blade free of its sheath, ominously approaching his prey.

“I’ll consider granting you a swift death if you give me a name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really had fun writing Geralt's POV in this one, I really wanted to convey how much of a worry-wart his is when it comes to his Bard. He tends to jump to the worst conclusions whenever Jaskier is concerned because that man is a trouble magnet, honestly. Pray for these two idiots, lol.


	16. Let's Go Somewhere Where The Stars Kiss The Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a vague plan to set in motion, the Bard dove under the crystalline water to scan the bottom of the river for a handhold of some sort. After only a few minutes of fruitless searching, Jaskier found a large rock that would work perfectly for what he had in mind. The musician surfaced, eagerly slicking his hair back to keep the wet strands out of his face before tentatively wedging his foot under the edge of the rock, his toes digging into the soft sand beneath. He tested it out a couple of times, bobbing up and down as he bent his knees, water lapping at his face when he pulled himself under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow, I haven't updated this story in what feels like forever. I'm just super swamped right now because I'm moving soon, to a different state no less. There's a lot that I need to get done, and not enough time in the day to do all of it. I'll still work on my fanfictions, but the updates will just be slower for most of them. 
> 
> For more information about my plans for this particular fic, please read the notes at the end of the chapter.

When they’d packed up camp that humid morning, the Witcher had declared that he was going to walk alongside the complaining Bard in an effort not to overwork Roach in the unforgiving heat. "Oh my lord, it's hotter than _fuck_ out here!" Jaskier moaned, a pink hand at his forehead to shield his squinted eyes from the sun. The musician was, unsurprisingly, rewarded with a low hum in response to his grumbling, but the Bard wasn't deterred from his ranting in the slightest. It wasn’t like Geralt could complain, he was wearing all black _and_ full armor with not a _single drop_ of sweat upon his brow.

On the other hand, Jaskier had stripped down as far as he could without becoming indecent for travel. His dark green doublet had been hastily stuffed in his pack and his cashmere shirt was untied, exposing a great deal of skin. The Bard’s nearly-bare chest heaved with every step he took, sweat dripping down his neck, shoulders, and back. He could feel the unnatural flush of red on his cheeks and nose, itchy and irritated from exposure. Not to mention that walking for a good part of the day had caused his abdomen to start throbbing, Jaskier was seriously considering just sitting down under the nearest tree and passing the hell out just to spite the Witcher.

But, alas, he tried to reason with Geralt one last time.

 _"Geralt..."_ Jaskier drew out his companion’s name to get his attention, and when the Witcher graced him with a side glance, the musician made sure to look as miserable as possible for maximum effect. “I’m _dying!"_ The Bard wrapped an arm around his middle, hand protectively hovering over where his newest scar lay. It had only been a fortnight since the assassination attempt, but Jaskier was healing quickly thanks to Geralt’s fussing paired with several tasty remedies that the kind Healer had made for him.

“Is it hurting again?” The Witcher’s voice went tight with worry, Jaskier’s white-haired companion shuffling closer to carefully tug the musician’s wrist away so that he could lift the Bard’s beige tunic and level the healing flesh with a critical eye. Jaskier let himself be poked and prodded at, tipping his head back to squint at the unforgiving sun. When he swayed a bit, Geralt steadied him with a blissfully cool hand on his hip. The Witcher’s chilled fingers splayed across the musician’s bare skin, the substantial difference of temperature causing goosebumps to rise.

“I need a break.” Jaskier breathed, he was going to give himself heatstroke if he wasn’t careful. The Bard was embarrassed to admit - even to himself - that traveling with Geralt sometimes made the musician forget that he was much more fragile compared to the Witcher. It usually took a close brush with death to remind both Jaskier and Geralt of the Bard’s human limitations, it worked out though because his travel companion usually remembered for the both of them.

So, when Jaskier inevitably forgot to be afraid, the Witcher was there to watch the reckless Bard’s back.

“Okay.” Something in Jaskier's stomach fluttered at Geralt’s easy agreement, usually the Witcher put up a hell of a fight when it came to what Geralt thought to be unnecessary stops. The musician whooped in joy, ignoring his twinging scar in favor of sprinting into the forest for shade. Geralt growled a curse, hastily following the energetic Bard into the dense woodland with Roach right on the grumpy Witcher’s heels.

Jaskier slid to a precarious stop, flailing out his arms when he came upon the damp sand that lined a crystalline river. He teetered for a breath-taking moment before a calloused hand snagged the back of his pants in order to keep him from tipping head-first into the water. The Bard hadn’t even heard the Witcher come up behind him, reminding Jaskier that Geralt could be silent if he wanted to, despite the sheer size of him.

"Geralt! Look, a river! Cool, blessed water." Jaskier crooned, delighted with their find. The musician excitedly made a move for the river, but was stopped short by a firm grip on the waistband of his trousers. When given a questioning look, Geralt loosened his grasp, but didn't pull away. The Witcher left his hand tucked into the cloth at the small of Jaskier's back, most likely to discourage the Bard from just diving headfirst into the glittering water the minute that he was released. The cool press of Geralt's knuckles against his spine, even through his thin tunic, made the Bard’s cheeks go hot.

Jaskier sincerely hoped that Geralt would just dismiss the resulting flush as sunburn.

“Fine, do your _Witchering._ I’ll wait. Right here, in the _shade.”_ Jaskier enunciates his desperation for some respite from the blazing sun, trudging to the nearest splotch of shadow and leaning up against the bark to watch Geralt as he unsheathed his silver blade before wading into the stream. It didn’t seem to get too deep, the middle of the brook only coming up to about chest-level on Geralt. The Witcher climbed out, sheathing his sword and shaking off like some kind of mutt before waving the Bard over. Jaskier was only too happy to prance towards Geralt, slowing to a halt in front of the scowling Witcher.

“If you see anything or even have the _slightest_ feeling that something is off, you get my attention and get out of the water.” Having already heard the speech about a hundred times before, Jaskier was eagerly nodding along before the Witcher could even finish voicing his strict conditions. Geralt’s molten eyes narrowed at his easy agreement, but ultimately moved out of the Bard’s way, allowing Jaskier easy access to the stream.

The musician hastily stripped out his clothes as he went, the garments creating a trail to the water’s edge. He didn’t hesitate to throw himself into the cool water, releasing a contented sigh when he resurfaced. Jaskier smiled brightly at Geralt when he caught the Witcher watching him splash around with something akin to fondness, Geralt himself had settled atop a nearby rock and was currently going about the painstaking process of sharpening and polishing his impressive collection of weaponry.

“This is a great place to set up camp, no?” Jaskier inquired, braving a glance at Geralt. The Witcher had paused his ministrations at the off-handed comment, those golden pools scrutinizing the grinning musician. “Fresh water source, secluded, plenty of fish. We could stay here for a bit, yes?” Jaskier playfully batted his eyelashes at Geralt and got an amused snort before the Witcher turned his attention back to his iron sword, the careless dismissal of his proposal had the Bard’s smile dropping into a frown.

 _“Come on._ We’ve got nowhere to be.” It was true enough. They were in-between jobs and towns with nothing better to do than wander until they found something that caught their interest. Though, this fact didn’t seem to stop the Witcher from acting like they were on a strict schedule. “We still have around eight hours of daylight. We can’t linger here for longer than twenty minutes.” Geralt shut down Jaskier’s harmless suggestion with a clipped tone, effectively ending the mostly one-sided debate.

The Bard huffed, retreating further into the river with the intent of ignoring the Witcher’s presence until he demanded they be on their way. Jaskier would just have to make the best out of the situation and enjoy the cool water while he could, he certainly wasn’t looking forward to continuing their journey to Melitele-knows-where in this unforgiving heat. The Bard stared forlornly at his toes, debating on whether or not to just climb out now and save Geralt the trouble of threatening him back onto dry land.

Jaskier started at Geralt’s loud snarl, the musician’s head snapping up just in time to see the Witcher petulantly storming over to Roach to begin aggressively unfastening their supplies from the mare’s saddle. The Bard’s head tilted in confusion, but he reasoned that perhaps Geralt had merely run out of something that was essential to his weapon maintenance. But that conclusion was swiftly dismissed with the Witcher’s next words, “We’ll stay until tomorrow morning and not a _minute_ longer.” Geralt barked, briefly twisting around to level the baffled musician with an aggrieved scowl.

Jaskier blinked, uncomprehending for all of two seconds before his face broke into a wide grin that made his cheeks hurt. Geralt’s severe expression faltered under the full force of the Bard’s elated smile, the musician raising an amused brow when the Witcher grumpily turned back to his task of diligently setting up camp. Now all that was left on his checklist was somehow convincing the uptight Witcher to join him in the water. Asking certainly wasn’t an option, so he would have to resort to more... _questionable_ methods.

With a vague plan to set in motion, the Bard dove under the crystalline water to scan the bottom of the river for a handhold of some sort. After only a few minutes of fruitless searching, Jaskier found a large rock that would work perfectly for what he had in mind. The musician surfaced, eagerly slicking his hair back to keep the wet strands out of his face before tentatively wedging his foot under the edge of the rock, his toes digging into the soft sand beneath. He tested it out a couple of times, bobbing up and down as he bent his knees, water lapping at his face when he pulled himself under.

The ploy was to act as if he’d gotten stuck, which would prompt the Witcher to come into the river to help him out. He was a bit stumped on what to do after he’d accomplished his goal, but Jaskier was good at thinking in a pinch, so he was sure that he’d figure something out. Once he’d gotten himself situated, he started talking, knowing that Geralt would instinctively tune into the Bard’s mostly one-sided conversation. “You know, there’s plenty of fish down here, we could probably make some sort of wrap with those corn tortillas you-” He cut himself off when he abruptly felt the sand around the rock shift, the stone sinking and pinning his foot.

The Bard hissed when the rough edges of the rock dug into the trapped appendage, his eyes involuntarily watering. Jaskier blinked away the sting of tears, blurred vision clearing to reveal one Witcher who was suddenly sitting ramrod straight, Geralt’s sharp eyes locked on him. The musician cautiously tried to shimmy his foot out and came to the sound conclusion that he was well and truly _stuck._ He repressed the irrational urge to laugh hysterically, well aware that he had much more pressing matters to attend to first.

Like getting free for example.

Jaskier sucked in a deep breath and ducked, the water swallowing him up. He reached for his trapped limb, digging into the sand around his foot in a vain attempt to give the appendage enough room to wiggle out from under the painful weight of the vile stone. The Bard was forced to concede defeat when his lungs started screaming for air, so he surfaced only to be greeted with an anxious Geralt. The Witcher was up and pacing the riverbank, his sword in hand as he scanned the water for any threats. His eyes found Jaskier as soon as his head popped up, and the way the Witcher’s grip on the hilt adjusted every few seconds, gave away his distress.

“Are you okay? Is there anything there? Can you move? Does anything hurt? Are you able to get out? Do you need help?” Geralt demanded, and Jaskier had to stifle a snort as he’s reminded how much of a worry wart the Witcher could be. “Geralt!” The Bard interrupted the Witcher’s rapid spiral into panic, and Geralt’s mouth shut with an audible click. “If you’d let me get a word out, you would already know that I’m fine. My foot is just stuck underneath a heavy rock that I don’t have the ability to move.” Jaskier arched a brow, waiting for Geralt to lend a hand. Unfortunately, the Witcher just stood there and stared at him like he’d just spoken in tongues.

“Now if you would be so kind as to put away the sword, I _need_ you to get in here and _lift it_ so I can get free.” The musician beckoned Geralt over with a wave of his hand, which seemed to be all the prompting the Witcher needed, because he hastily stabbed his blade into the soft dirt to his right before trudging into the stream, armor and all. Jaskier thought that Geralt would have, at the very least, taken the time to shed his armor - perhaps even do away with a few layers - considering that there was no serious rush, but that was apparently too much to expect from the Witcher.

Geralt swiftly cut through the water, taking a breath and diving beneath the surface just in front of the Bard. Jaskier only had to wait a moment before the weight that had been pinning his foot was lifted, his limb no longer held prisoner. Though, before the Bard could swim away, Geralt easily caught him around the waist and lifted him up. Jaskier yelped in surprise at the sudden shift, warmth coiling in his belly at the show of raw strength. Geralt marched over to the riverbank before placing Jaskier onto the wet sand, the Witcher soothing his own needless worrying by thoroughly inspecting Jaskier’s foot and ankle.

The musician patiently waited for Geralt to ease his mind, taking pleasure in the knowledge that he had completed what he’d initially set out to do. "The water’s great, is it not? I’m delighted that you could join me." Jaskier didn’t bother trying to hide his smug grin, watching with malicious glee as his seemingly innocent statement finally processed. Geralt’s amber eyes shot up to stare at him, the disbelief written all over his face. “You did this on purpose?” Geralt’s tone had an edge to it, his eyes darkening. Jaskier’s smile abruptly fell at the unexpected reaction, his good cheer fleeing in the face of the Witcher’s anger.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that. I actually _didn’t_ intend to become trapped, but then I accidentally got stuck for real and just decided to roll with it.” Jaskier shrugged, keeping a keen eye on Geralt’s face to note even the smallest twitches in order to gauge just how upset he was. “I only wanted you to have a break, you know, _relax._ And maybe even indulge in a bit of fun?” He began nervously explaining himself, wary of the blank-faced Witcher that was currently staring him down. The Bard’s eyes lowered to the pruned pads of his fingers, deflating even further under Geralt’s cutting gaze.

“I just wanted to spend time with you.” Jaskier mumbled, barely even a breath, but he knew that Geralt would be able to hear it. Then upon realizing how lovesick and desperate it sounded, the Bard immediately backtracked. “I mean, outside of anything life threatening or around other people. So then you wouldn’t have to be so tense and you could just relax and be yourself with me.” Jaskier babbled, gesticulating wildly and ignoring how his side smarted at the panicked flailing.

The musician felt _gutted_ when Geralt bowed his head, the massive Witcher hunching in on himself as his shoulders trembled. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it, it was desperate and stupid and... _Geralt?”_ The soft shuddering turned into full body shaking and Jaskier heard an odd sound. It was familiar and foreign all at once, and it took the Bard a minute to place the unusual noise. If the musician wasn’t mistaken, the Witcher was… laughing? Jaskier was worrying himself to pieces over Geralt’s emotional well being and the absolute bastard was _laughing!?_

But when the musician stopped to consider the situation, it felt awfully similar to what Jaskier had just pulled with the Witcher. He’d made Geralt worry even though he was just perfectly fine, then he proceeded to be a self-centered asshole, who was too busy patting himself on the back to notice his dear Witcher’s distress. The Bard’s stomach twisted up into knots, his lips thinning into a white line. He didn’t deserve to hear such a wonderful sound, Geralt shouldn’t be laughing about this. The Witcher should be _upset_ about this breach of trust, he should be _yelling._

Jaskier must’ve stayed quiet for too long, because Geralt’s laughter tapered off and his brilliant smile fell. His shining eyes dulled when he took a deep breath in, brows furrowing into a confused scowl. “You...you thought that I was upset with you?” The Witcher’s hands fluttered over the Bard’s dejected form and Jaskier debated getting back into the water so he could drown himself. “Well you _should_ be.” Jaskier bit out, and the Witcher’s palms dropped to press against the Bard’s thighs. _“Jaskier.”_ The way the Witcher said his name was enough to gain the Bard’s full attention and he lifted his head to look at Geralt, who was staring at the musician as if he’d just _ripped_ the Witcher’s heart out.

“I’m not mad at you.” Geralt's molten eyes were beseeching, his grip on the musician tightening. Jaskier huffed, but his posture relaxed at the unearned forgiveness. The Witcher let him get away with far too much, which often prompted the Bard to compare the Geralt he knew now to the Geralt he first met during the Griffin attack. The Bard was pulled out of his contemplation when the Witcher moved into the V of his legs, leaning in until he was nose-to-nose with Jaskier. “You know you could have just _asked_ me to join you, right?” Geralt quipped, face splitting into a shit-eating grin that made the musician’s hackles rise.

“How was I supposed to know that, you absolute _miscreant!_ You’ve never agreed to go along with my whims before!” He hissed, splashing water at the Witcher in childish retaliation. “You’re such a fucking _tool,_ I honestly don’t know why I bother with you.” The Witcher laughed, getting a mouthful of water for his efforts when Jaskier's arm lashed out to send a second wave at him. Then the Bard was being lifted, despite his flailing limbs and banshee shrieking, and being tossed into a deeper part of the stream. Geralt’s delighted laughter was muffled when Jaskier sunk beneath the surface. He was submerged into the cool water, the river churning pleasantly around him as he calmly drifted there. It wasn’t until his back brushed over the sand of the riverbed that the Bard came back to himself, planting his feet and rising up out of the water with a splutter.

The disgruntled musician proceeded to launch himself at the snorting Witcher with a battle cry, catching the bigger man around the waist and sending them both backward into the river. The little wrestling match turning into a full out splash war as they tried their best to drown the other. Geralt went low and got the musician around the waist, still ever mindful of his healing side as he lifted Jaskier up out of the water, before violently driving them both back in. The Bard made quick work of wiggling free, kicking out at the smirking Witcher.

Jaskier doesn't recall how the series of events went down, but they somehow managed to get onto shore and continued their wrestling match in the soft grass. The Bard was quickly and effortlessly pinned beneath the Witcher’s thick mass, the two breaking out into quiet laughter when Jaskier accidently knocked his forehead into Geralt’s chin while struggling. The Witcher easily rested his weight on his forearms as he draped himself protectively over the Bard’s smaller form, Jaskier finding his gaze darting between Geralt’s impossibly bright eyes and slightly parted lips.

The Witcher’s gaze seemed to glow brighter as they stared at one another, Jaskier holding his breath as Geralt slowly lowered his head. The Bard’s eyes fluttered closed moments before the Witcher rested his forehead against Jaskier’s, a breathy chuckle fanning out across the musician’s flushed skin, the action making Jaskier smile. At that moment he vowed to always make Geralt laugh whenever possible, the sound being one of the most beautiful he’d ever had the pleasure of listening to.

When they finally parted, Geralt rolled off of the Bard and sprawled out on the ground beside him, staring up at the lazily drifting clouds as Jaskier caught his breath. “We should do this more often.” Jaskier found himself saying, turning his head to grin tenderly at the Witcher’s lovely side profile. He caught the way Geralt’s lips quirked before the Witcher shifted to face the Bard, looking disheveled and content with the world. “Gently wrestle until I inevitably win?”

Jaskier jabbed an elbow into Geralt's side, receiving an amused snort for his efforts. “You utter loggerhead! You insult me. I put up a good fight.” The Bard huffed, preparing to go another round with Geralt, but the Witcher ended the battle before it could start by grabbing one of Jaskier’s hands and lacing their fingers together. The musician settled back down and slid over in order to press himself flush with Geralt’s side, pleasantly surprised when the Witcher shifted to allow the Bard to get comfortable under his arm, using their joined hands to pull Jaskier in.

As the two rested there, Jaskier just lightly dozed, losing track of just how long they comfortably basked in the sun. And by the time he drifted back into consciousness, the sun was setting, painting the sky in a beautiful mix of magenta and violet. He carefully propped himself up on an elbow, brows furrowing at the bone-deep ache that persisted in his side. He pushed the pain aside for a moment, wanting to enjoy the vision of the resting Witcher beside him. Geralt’s features were smoothed out in a way that made him look _decades_ younger, it resembled how he appeared when he took a scorching hot bath and thought no one was watching.

The Bard felt his own features soften in response to seeing the more vulnerable side of the Witcher. He sat up, crossing his legs, and took hold of one of Geralt’s loosely curled hands. The Bard lightly stroked his thumb over the Witcher’s calloused palm, pushing towards his fingertips and watching as the strong appendage lazily unfurled and spread out. Geralt hummed sleepily and rolled toward Jaskier, curling his larger body around the Bard’s sitting figure. It was a gesture that the musician recognized, seeing as when they slept together, Jaskier never failed to find himself protectively wrapped up in Geralt's arms by morning.

“You’re going to be furious with me tomorrow, but I’m going to let you sleep my dear Witcher. You deserve some rest.” The Bard mumbled quietly to his snoozing companion, keeping his voice low and calm as to not wake him. As he sat there carefully massaging both of Geralt’s hands, he debated whether or not to bother setting up camp. Laying on the ground without a proper fire or blankets sounded terrible, but Jaskier knew that they could manage, just as they had before. He was going to regret it in the morning, but for now, the Bard could live without his bedroll.

He sighed before snuggling back up to the cold Witcher. It wasn’t ideal, but when it came to cuddling with Geralt, Jaskier jumped at any chance he could get. He’d only just gotten comfortable when Geralt spooned up behind him, pulling the Bard back to slot the two of them together like puzzle pieces. Comfortable and safe, Jaskier’s eyelids began to slide shut, heavy with exhaustion. Black seeped around the edges of his vision as he finally let go, allowing sleep to find and take him into the land of dreams.

*** * ***

Geralt languidly stretched out, calmly blinking awake. The first thing he noticed was the distinct lack of a fire, the second being that he’d fallen asleep in damp clothes, and the third was that so had Jaskier. The Witcher carefully extracted himself from the confusing tangle of limbs that he and the Bard had become during the night before brushing Jaskier’s hair back to check his temperature, releasing the breath he’d been holding at the absence of a fever. They’d gotten lucky yet again, which was becoming a common occurrence for them.

But everyone’s luck ran out eventually.

Geralt scowled up at the still-dark sky before rolling away from the slumbering musician and silently pushing to his feet, moving over to their pile of supplies to rummage for some soothing cream for Jaskier’s scar and the Witcher’s favorite fur blanket. It was his favorite because Lambert and Eskel had made it for him, they’d given it to him a handful of years ago as an out-of-the-blue gift. Geralt treasured it, and he’d be lying if he said that there wasn’t something appealing about the mental image of a certain Bard comfortably snuggled up under his brother's thoughtful present.

Jaskier remained asleep as the Witcher went through the slow process of carefully divesting the musician of his clothes. Geralt paused when he caught sight of Jaskier’s newest scar, which was red and irritated. The Witcher felt something in his chest tighten when he came to the conclusion that the healing tissue had probably been aggravated while they were grappling. Geralt was supposed to be the responsible one out of the two of them, but he’d forgotten himself in the simple joy of having a playmate. 

Rolling around with Jaskier reminded the Witcher of his, admittedly more aggressive, wrestling matches with his brothers from his youth. He’d forgotten how good it felt to fight without the threat of death, and being allowed to mindlessly grapple with his favorite person was a treat. Geralt often found himself puzzled over how okay Jaskier seemed to be around him, especially with how animalistic he could be at times. He didn’t dare ask about what the musician thought of such behavior for fear of the answer, but a distressingly large part of him screamed that Jaskier didn’t mind.

Geralt set the Bard’s clothes aside and grabbed the canister to twist off the lid, scooping up a generous dollop of the cream to gently massage into the tight scar tissue. It smelt like mint and eucalyptus with some other underlying herbs mixed in, the Witcher found that it complimented Jaskier’s own scent of rain and tree bark. The Bard twitched and Geralt slowed his ministrations in hopes of keeping the human asleep, relieved when Jaskier settled down with a drowsy mumble of incomprehensible nonsense.

The Witcher cautiously ran his hands over the pink line, hating the wound that marked Jaskier with Geralt’s failure. It should’ve been him in that room, not this precious person that made his life on the path more bearable. When he’d heard the Bard shout for him, his heart had frozen in his chest. The Witcher hadn’t even bothered with the door, kicking it open, the lock splintering when the wooden obstruction came right off its hinges. He’d caught sight of the human almost immediately, finding Jaskier with a blade alarmingly close to his person.

He hadn’t been fast enough.

Geralt’s throat clicked when he swallowed, the trust that the human placed in his hands was as intoxicating as it was frightening. The Witcher absently ran his fingers over the musician’s stomach in an attempt to calm his rattled nerves, the pale skin warm and familiar. The languid thud of Geralt’s heart increased when the abrupt and desperate urge to lean down and _taste_ washed over him, the impulse wasn’t a new one; but he was well aware that giving in to it would have disastrous repercussions, so the Witcher reluctantly dragged his hands away from the Bard’s slumbering form before they could get ideas of their own.

Geralt wrapped the fur around Jaskier before gently maneuvering the fuzzy bundle into his lap, instinctively tucking the musician’s head under his chin. He could feel the soft tickle of the Bard’s fluttering eyelashes against his throat, Jaskier squirming in the Witcher's secure hold with a questioning hum. Instead of answering, he relaxed against his Bard and let his vocal cords generate a ridiculously loud purr that would’ve embarrassed him if the human were more awake. Jaskier didn’t seem to mind the strangely animalistic sound though, the musician had straight-up told him that he found it calming to listen to when he first discovered that Geralt could produce such an inhuman sound.

The Witcher’s heart faltered when the Bard snuggled closer with a content sigh, his scent shifting into honey, morning dew, and sea salt. Geralt had been smelling it on the musician more and more often, but he was unsure of which emotion it represented. Despite the mystery of what it could mean, the pleasant fragrance never failed to make something warm curl in his belly when he caught a whiff of it. Geralt pressed his nose into Jaskier’s hair, craving more of the wonderful scent that wafted off the Bard in thick waves.

“Thank you for yesterday, Jaskier.” Geralt mumbled, hiding his gratitude in the soft brown locks that he’d unrepentantly nuzzled into. “I hope you convince me to do stuff like this more often, I forgot what it was like to enjoy this life. I’d forgotten the reason for fighting the monsters, especially since most of the monsters I come across wear human faces.” The Witcher confessed, his arms tightened around the softly snoring Bard. “But you showed me what I’m fighting so hard for. I’ve been fighting to give people like you the chance to live the long, peaceful life that they deserve.” Geralt pressed the musician flush against his front, taking comfort in watching the steady rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest.

“If I did believe in the gods, I’d ask that they let me have you until you need to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright folks, I have some news. Since each Chapter is a story that's part of a bigger timeline (like episodes, if you will), I've decided to postpone future updates until I've finished writing the rest of the chapters. I kinda fell out of the fandom for a while and got super behind on updating (which was inevitable), but I also chose to hold off on updating this fic because I actually have a set ending for it. Not to mention that most of the remaining chapters are at least partially finished. I just wanted to post this chapter to tide you guys over for a while and to also share this information with my readers. It might take a good long while until I start posing again and I'm sorry for that, writer's block is a relentless beast. Don't forget to leave a review! 
> 
> Stay weird my lovelies!


	17. You Can't Throw Me To The Wolf (He Comes When I Call)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mandatory Third Person POV fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay...so I know I said I'd start posting only after I had the rest finished, but I've kinda hit a wall when it comes to writing this fic, so it's going to take longer than initially planned to finish the rest of the chapters. So I've decided to post another Chapter since I have Chapter 18 finished and 19 almost done. Not to mention that I've started a job that requires a lot of labor, so I'm pretty wiped when I get home. So, unfortunately, no writing is getting done lately. So sorry! Enjoy my humble peace offering! Stay weird my lovelies!
> 
> Warning for ATTEMPTED RAPE. Nothing graphic but still, enough is implied that a warning is needed.

“Um, Lord Osric? Do you truly believe that the Witcher will come for him?” He chose his words carefully, his hazel eyes nervously jumping from the Lord to the unconscious man that was carelessly slung over their spare horse’s saddle. His hands and feet were tightly bound, ensuring that the colorful musician would be immobile were he to wake before they reached their destination.

“Seeing as you were elsewhere when Kain and his men acquired the Bard, I can understand why you have reservations, Joel. But I’m quite confident that the abomination will make an appearance.” The amount of surety in Lord Osric’s tone did little to comfort Joel, because if the absolute madman was _right_ about the Bard’s significance, then Lord Osric was about to bring a _Witcher’s_ wrath down upon them. It wasn’t exactly reassuring that there were _stories_ about this particular Witcher either, tales of how he’d wiped an _entire town_ off the map, and whispers of the massacre in Blaviken.

The Butcher had rendered a whole settlement nothing but charred remains, the blackened bones of the townspeople had been found in what little was left of their beds. Word spread from Travelers and Merchants about a certain white-haired Witcher that had been passing through the odd town around the time of the fire. Stories told about how the inferno that had consumed the town hadn’t been natural. Eyewitnesses even claimed to have seen a massive pillar of blazing flames off in the distance, but said that by the time they’d arrived, the column of fire had vanished.

And if the Bard was the only one to walk out of that town alive...then the brightly-dressed musician that Lord Osric had stupidly taken hostage must mean _something_ to the Witcher. If that were indeed the case, then anyone who had been involved in the Bard’s kidnapping was a dead man walking. Joel side-eyed a smug Kain, gaze sliding over to the Captain's three most loyal - and equally sadistic - knights. Colart, Bernard, and lastly, Augustus, who caught Joel staring and urged his horse faster so that he could close the distance between them.

The man was only two or three years older than Joel himself, and he had a penchant for punching the snot out of people for merely _looking_ at him wrong. Augustus was oddly civil to Joel though, even when the knight was in a foul mood. He was actually the kindest to him out of everyone at Lord Osric’s manor, even the Lord himself lost his patience with Joel sometimes. The teen had long become accustomed to various punishments, a sound beating was Kain’s go-to whenever Joel messed up.

“Hey, Dimples, try not to worry so much. What’s one monster against an entire keep of knights?” Augustus tilted his head, his cropped cinnamon brown hair falling over his glittering emerald eyes as his full lips quirked up into a cocky, lopsided grin. He managed to look both devastatingly handsome and boyish all at once, it wasn’t hard to understand why the servant girls were always practically throwing themselves at him. Because of Augustus’ natural charm and gentlemanly exterior, Joel sometimes forgot that the young man was capable of unspeakable violence.

“Right.” Joel murmured, casting one last wary glance at Lord Osric’s unconscious prisoner.

* * *

The first escape attempt happened after the Bard had awoken and learned of the situation he was in. The musician had managed to wriggle free of his bindings and smash Colart’s head into a wall, successfully knocking the man out, before blindly sprinting through the manor in search of an exit. Unfortunately, Joel had _literally_ run right into him before the Bard could do so. And, to make matters even worse, the teen’s basket of freshly washed linens flew out of his hands when the two went down in a heap of loud cursing and flailing limbs.

Bernard and Kain found them like that, the teen and Bard struggling to separate from each other to no avail, due to a particularly wicked sheet. Kain and Bernard were too busy trying to breathe through their laughter to be of any help, so Joel had to petulantly wait for Augustus to make an appearance. Said knight was quick to arrive on-scene and assist them in getting untangled with an amused smirk, Bernard snagging the disgruntled musician before he could make a run for it.

Kain and Bernard had escorted the Bard back to his room while Augustus stayed behind to help Joel return the scattered lumps of fabric back to the basket, then the knight proceeded to walk with Joel back towards the servant’s quarters so he could diligently re-wash the laundry. Oddly enough, Augustus wasn’t very talkative unless someone engaged him in conversation. So they ended up traveling in silence because Joel just couldn’t think of a topic to chat about that _didn’t_ pertain to the fact that Lord Osric was poking the proverbial bear by kidnapping the Bard.

The second daring escape had been attempted a mere two hours after the first, the Bard actually managing to get _outside_ this time. Joel had seen a flash of color from the corner of his eye, prompting him to turn his attention to the window. The teen’s curious gaze screeched to a halt on the Lord’s prisoner, who was tearing across the front lawn. The musician was a few meters from the treeline when Kain finally caught up, bodily throwing himself at the Bard’s back to roughly tackle the smaller man to the ground.

The musician fought against Kain’s hold, face twisted with frustration as the bigger man struggled to haul the thrashing Bard back toward the manor. Joel watched their slow progress across the well-maintained grass, begrudgingly impressed with the musician’s conviction. Unfortunately, Joel wasn't sure how long the Bard would’ve lasted in the woods, unless he knew what plants to eat and such. Joel himself was quite good at identifying edible plants, his father had been the Healer of a small town after all. 

He knew his way around the forest, knew which plants to make tinctures and teas with. Lord Osric was none-the-wiser about that little fact though, and it was for the better. Joel had seen the concoctions that the Lord asked his personal medic to make, none of them had been pleasant to say the least. His attention was pulled back to the scuffle outside when Augustus jogged over to the grappling duo, helping Kain lug the squirming musician into the keep. The teen could hear the faint echoes of the Bard’s shouting, the words unintelligible because of the distance.

* * *

Later on in the day, Joel made a brief stop at the kitchens to grab a chunk of bread with some fresh fruit and dried meat for the Bard, carefully avoiding the staff’s curious stares as he did so. Lord Osric hadn’t said that his prisoner _couldn’t_ be fed, so Joel planned on bringing the Bard meals until he was directly told not to. Then he would switch to using more underhanded tactics to smuggle food to the musician, the guy didn’t deserve to starve. Not to mention that the Witcher who this particular Bard was traveling with was going to be furious enough after finding the ransom note that’d been tied to the neck of the musician’s lute and sent off to the Inn that the White Wolf was staying at.

They didn’t need to add starvation to the ever-growing list of trauma that the Bard had been subjected to while in Lord Osric’s clutches.

Joel made his way down to the lower levels of the manor, marching over to the room that held the musician. When Joel pushed the thick wooden door open, the sight he was greeted with tied his stomach into knots. Colart and Bernard each had a hand braced on one of the Bard’s shoulders, their other hand curled around the musician’s wrist to wrench the Bard’s arms back. Kain was in front of the immobile musician with a distinctly unfriendly smile on his face, an empty glass vial in his hand. Augustus was beside Lord Osric, who was observing the drugged Bard with a bored expression, his gaze sliding over to a frozen Joel at the sound of the door opening.

“What did you give him?” The teen blurted, his horrified gaze glued to the mumbling Bard. The musician’s pupils were blown wide, leaving only a sliver of blue visible. “Just an herbal remedy that...encourages compliance.” Lord Osric mused smugly, gesturing at the subdued Bard. The man had been so loud and stubborn from the moment he woke up, so it was pretty unnerving to see him so quiet all of a sudden. He wasn’t even struggling against the rough hands that restricted his movement for fuck’s sake. Joel felt vaguely ill looking at the musician, who’d obviously been drugged out of his mind.

“He won’t be slipping away again, but I still want someone keeping an eye on him at all times. You may hash out a schedule amongst yourselves.” Lord Osric addressed the knights and Joel felt a ball of lead sink in his gut when Kain’s lips twisted into an eager grin that more or less confirmed that the bastard was plotting something. The four men converged in the center of the room, the Bard left bonelessly slumped against the wall. Joel stepped aside when Lord Osric approached, wincing when the Lord’s brow arched, spotting the food. He left without comment though, and Joel released the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.

“Hey boy, return this to the medicine man will ya? I have better things to do.” Kain barked and Joel just barely managed to catch the empty vial that was unceremoniously tossed at him. The tray wobbled precariously until Joel steadied it by adjusting his grip, waiting for the four knights to turn their attention back to one another before he brought the lip of the bottle up to his nose to experimentally sniff at the contents. He recognized the concoction immediately, mostly because his dad had made it once. His father had caught Joel watching, but instead of reprimanding him, the old man had waved him over to walk him through the process. When the remedy was finished, his dad also showed him what plants to use to make a tea that would cancel out the effects.

He gave the knights a wide berth as he made his way to the musician, kneeling to set the tray down beside the incoherent man. The Bard blinked at him sluggishly, squinting as if he couldn’t see Joel clearly. The teen’s lips thinned into a tight white line, there was _no way_ that the Witcher would forgive Lord Osric now. Even if the Lord were to grovel and beg for mercy at the White Wolf’s feet, he would likely be killed anyway. Witcher’s were believed to be beasts in human skin, stronger than the average monster and three times as deadly. Joel, of course, knew that the statement was true; but the ones who possessed a snarling wolf medallion were known to help no matter what the pay was.

Joel still remembered the first time he saw a Witcher, the cloaked stranger had rode into town looking to take care of the Kikimore that’d made itself comfortable in the nearby marsh. The wolf pendant had seized Joel’s interest first, then he’d caught a glimpse of the unnatural golden eyes and the sharp, cat-like pupils that sat in the center of those glowing pools of lava. He recalled the terror that had washed over him when he realized that the Witcher was _staring right at him,_ a fear that gradually faded when the monster hunter didn’t immediately lunge off his horse and promptly lob his head off.

The Witcher’s nostrils briefly flared before they averted their eyes, coaxing their horse forward. Joel had watched the Witcher’s broad back, curious despite the countless warnings that his father had crammed down his throat about such mutated beings. He followed the monster hunter to the town Inn, keeping a considerable distance between himself and the Witcher as a precaution. Joel hid behind a cluster of barrels when the monster hunter arrived at the stables, gracefully climbing off the saddle before politely handing the reins off to the skittish stable boy that wasn’t much older than Joel himself.

When the Witcher disappeared into the Tavern, Joel crept out from behind his cover and jogged over to the stables. He cautiously poked his head in to see the stable boy diligently leading the mare to an open stall before filling up the horse’s water trough and piling some fresh hay into the stall for the majestic steed to munch on. Joel ducked out of sight and flattened himself against the wall when the stable boy finished his task, moving toward the entrance to the stables where Joel was lurking. The kid didn’t seem to notice him when he passed, the stable boy’s eyes pinned to his feet as he hurried toward the Inn.

Joel exhaled noisily, shoulders slumping in relief before he turned his attention back to the stables. Letting his innocent curiosity take the reins, he slipped into the building and eagerly scrambled over to the Witcher’s horse. It was a beautiful silky black and looked to be well taken care of, which was a relief. As if sensing his presence, the mare turned in a tight circle to face him. “Uh...hi there? You’re very pretty.” Joel blurted, his face heating when he realized that he’d just complimented a _horse._ His embarrassment was quickly discarded when the mare stretched its neck in order to sniff at his face, the tickling sensation pulling a laugh from him.

“You can touch her if you want.” An unfamiliar voice piped in and Joel jumped away from the horse, his fight or flight instincts flaring to life. The voice had come from the entrance to the stables, which was behind him. Knowing that a confrontation was inevitable, Joel sheepishly turned around to face the person who’d spoken. To say that he was surprised when his owlish gaze found the Witcher standing in the doorway would have been an understatement, but he relaxed despite the tiny voice in the back of his head that screamed for him to run away.

“Sorry for startling you, I’m reliably told that I’m good at sneaking up on people.” The monster hunter’s tone was deadpan, but his slightly crinkled eyes were blazing like the sun. The Witcher’s dark hood had been pulled back, exposing his face. Now that the shadows weren’t concealing the monster hunter’s features, Joel took the time to really look at them. The Witcher’s ear-length dark brown hair seemed like it would be soft to the touch, the locks gently rustling with the slight breeze. Joel’s eyes dropped, drawn to the four grisly scars that ran across the right side of his face, which made him look pretty damn intimidating. His molten eyes were warm and welcoming though, the oddly fond expression had the last of Joel’s unease fading away.

“Hi mister, I’m Joel. I like your horse.” As soon as the odd introduction was out of his mouth, Joel wished he could snatch up the words and stuff them back down his throat. He was aware of how terrible he was at interacting with people, but that was just downright _embarrassing._ The Witcher didn’t appear nearly as put off at the awkward greeting as Joel did, if anything, the monster hunter had perked up at his clumsy attempt to make small talk. “I’ll admit, she is a lovely travel companion. She’s not very ladylike though.” The horse huffed like she had taken offence to the Witcher’s words and the absolute absurdity of the exchange had Joel laughing. And if the boy wasn’t mistaken, the monster hunter's lips quirked a bit in response to the positive sound.

“I’d imagine not, mister.” Joel gaffed, shaking his head. The Witcher took a hesitant step forward, as if testing to see if he could. His lovely gold eyes searched Joel’s face and his nostrils flared, as if trying to scent for something. When he found what he was looking for -or maybe the lack of it- the tension drained out of his posture and he proceeded to carefully close the distance between them. Joel was hit by a sudden wave of pity for the Witcher before him, this _person_ who had been wrongfully prosecuted and shunned by mankind for simply being different.

“Thank you.” Joel wasn’t sure why he needed the Witcher to hear his token of gratitude, his morsel of kindness was nothing in the face of the _decades_ of hatred this man had most likely endured. “For what?” The Witcher inquired, looking both parts confused and curious. Joel’s heart ached for the monster hunter, lamenting the horrors that they’ve faced and will face in the future. “For your help.” Joel managed to choke out, his eyes darting down to the Witcher’s hand before he decided to take a risk and reach for the pale limb. His fingertips gently brushed the monster hunter’s wrist, carefully slotting their hands together.

“But I haven’t killed it yet, I might fail.” The Witcher’s voice was noticeably strained, but not with anger. Joel tore his eyes away from the unbelievable sight of their clasped hands, peering up at the frozen monster hunter. The Witcher’s conflicted gaze was pinned on their laced fingers, his brows furrowed. Joel briefly wondered if the brave monster hunter had ever received such kind touch from a human before, but all he had to do was look at the Witcher’s face to know the heartbreaking answer to his question. Joel was more than honored to be the first person that showed this misunderstood Witcher the respect and care he deserved, releasing the man’s hand only to go in for a tight hug.

“Doesn't matter whether you succeed or not, what matters is that you tried. So thank you, for deciding to try.”

* * *

After he’d finished all his chores, Joel had snuck out of the manor using one of the servant entrances and hurried off into the woods. He wandered for a while, picking the plants that he would need for what he had in mind. Joel didn’t have a lot of time to spare before someone noticed his absence, which meant he couldn’t be out in the forest for as long as he’d like. Lord Osric was very strict with his servants, especially the ones he bought. The people that the Lord purchased were treated more like slaves than servants, obligated to obey any and all orders that their betters gave voice to.

He was just as much of a prisoner here as that Bard.

Most days, the scars that were layered over Joel’s back made him feel less than human. He’d long since accepted the fact that he was nothing to these people, a mere whipping boy. He was fucking sick and tired of having to take the undeserved punishments that became more and more brutal as he grew, he just wanted the never ending cycle of pain to _stop._ When Joel was younger and much more naïve, he’d wanted freedom. He’d wanted to be happy, he wanted his life to _matter_ to someone. But he wasn’t allowed to want anymore, the ability to do so had been all but beaten out of him.

He shook himself, blinking away the familiar sting of frustrated tears. He stuffed the herbs into his pockets before making his way back to the dreaded manor, slipping into another servant entrance undetected. He had multiple close calls with a few of the knights, but he managed to make it to the kitchens unscathed. Joel was confident that the staff wouldn’t ask any questions about why he was brewing tea, since Lord Osric asked for a pot on occasion. He kept his features carefully neutral, but he couldn’t quite mask the way his hands trembled. He was taking a huge risk by doing this, especially since he didn’t know how the Bard would react to returning to a lucid state of mind.

If the musician was loud about it, Joel would be deemed a traitor and killed.

Joel swallowed thickly as he carefully loaded up a tray with the pot and the corresponding teacup. He nodded to the head chef before he left, hastily striding down the hall. He paused in front of the door that led to the lower level, taking a brief moment to look around for any prying eyes before twisting the handle and letting himself in. Joel closed the door behind him with a soft click, creeping down the dimly lit staircase. He remembered the guard that was supposed to be posted outside the Bard’s room a moment too late, his wide eyes landing on Augustus as soon as he rounded the corner.

The knight had been boredly lounging against the wall, but he’d immediately straightened from his lazy slouch when he caught sight of Joel. A slow, warm smile curled onto his lips and he eagerly waved the hesitant teen closer. “Hey Dimples, what’cha got there?” Augustus mused, his gaze curiously sweeping over the carefully balanced tray. Joel wracked his mind for a reasonable excuse that he could use to justify why he’d come to visit a prisoner with _tea_ of all things. “I...uh. You see-” His panicked sputtering was cut off when Augustus wordlessly twisted around, opening the door before dramatically waving an arm to prompt Joel to enter.

“It’s alright, no explanation needed. Go ahead, your secret is safe with me.” Augustus assured, looking oddly serious despite how light and playful his tone was. Joel merely nodded, not trusting his voice. He shuffled past the other man, retreating further into the room. The door closed behind him and a hysterical laugh bubbled up his throat, he couldn’t believe that he’d actually gotten away with this. Well...he still had one last step to complete before he could consider his plan a success and the next bit was the part that Joel wasn’t so sure about.

He set the tray onto a small, rickety table before hesitantly filling the teacup. Joel then carefully approached the Bard, a quick glance at the other man’s dilated pupils confirmed that the musician was still very much drugged. He grabbed the Bard’s shoulder, gently maneuvering the man into a position that was more comfortable. The musician groggily blinked at him, but didn’t extend any effort in resisting him. Joel swallowed down bile and brought the cup of tea to the Bard’s lips. Joel slowly tipped the cup, relieved when the man’s throat flexed as he instinctively swallowed the lukewarm liquid.

Joel’s anxiety steadily climbed higher as the musician's pupils shrunk into a more acceptable size, awareness seeping back into the Bard’s cornflower blue eyes. The man shook his head, as if trying to physically dislodge the fog that was clogging his mind. The musician’s fuzzy gaze came to a screeching halt on Joel’s wary expression, those sharp blue eyes narrowing into suspicious slits when he noticed the empty cup that was hovering in front of his face. “The tea helps dampen the effects of the drugs. I couldn’t make it as strong as I wanted because one of the knights would notice if you suddenly sobered up.” Joel murmured, drawing that cutting gaze back to his person. The musician regarded the fidgeting teen for a moment, then his features abruptly softened and he spoke.

“Thank you.”

* * *

“You know, for someone so pretty, you sure have a lot of scars. You into getting mauled or something? I mean, you _were_ traveling with a _Witcher_ after all. Those fuckers are practically monsters themselves.” Kain’s muffled voice filtered through the wooden obstruction and Joel’s insides went ice cold, the teen hesitating in front of the door. The implications behind Kain’s words sent his mind into a frenzy, he was torn between two possible routes that he could take. He could walk away and let Kain have what he wanted, he could just turn around and leave the Bard to his fate.

On the other hand, he could do the thing that he wished someone had done for him. He could _intervene._ He could walk right in a demand that Kain leave the musician alone, but he would need a plan. The teen’s decision was made for him when he heard a soft sound, one that sounded suspiciously similar to a choked sob. Joel’s hand darted out to grab and twist the brass knob before he even had an idea of how he was going to get both himself and the Bard out of the situation unscathed, the teen marching in only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight he was met with.

“What the hell? Get off him!” Joel blurted and Kain paused, as if just realizing that the teen was there, before turning to aim a suggestive smile at the fuming servant. “What, you want a piece of the Bard too? Don’t worry, there’s plenty of him to go around.” Joel’s stomach churned at Kain’s offer, as if he thought the teen would be _willing_ to join in. As if he thought that Joel would be able to stand to live with himself if he were to do something that... _depraved_ to another person. “Not interested.” The servant snarled, stalking toward the duo. 

Kain’s smile briefly faltered at Joel’s tone, clearly unhappy at the teen’s lack of acquiescence. The knight searched the servant’s face for a long moment, his hungry eyes darkening with the promise of violence at what he saw. Kain shifted away from the rumpled Bard, Joel refusing to flinch when the knight pushed to his feet with a grunt of exertion. Between Kain’s sheer stature, and the years of battle training that Joel _knew_ he’d received, the knight made quite an imposing figure. “That's too bad, your loss. Now if you would kindly excuse us? I’m not finished with him.”

“Yes, you are.” Joel met the sadistic man’s malicious stare head-on, raising his trembling chin defiantly when Kain crowded into his space. “I wonder how Lord Osric would react if he knew that you were sneaking around with his wife?” The servant hissed, stopping the knight’s fury in its tracks. Kain blinked rapidly, clearly taken off guard by the fact that Joel knew about his latest sexual escapade. “Are you... _blackmailing_ me? You really think that he would believe _your_ word over _mine?”_ Kain raised an incredulous brow, his lips stretching into an unsettling grin that had Joel’s heart leaping into his throat.

“I’ve never lied to Lord Osric, _you_ on the other hand...he knows that you're nothing but a rotten snake.” Joel shrugged, playing up a nonchalant exterior that contrasted the panicked disaster that he actually was underneath. He was just lucky that Kain was awful at seeing the obvious, cause the teen was sure that some of his fear was leaking through the cracks in his façade. The knight was visibly seething, teeth grit and jaw working. “I’m a fucking knight! There’s no way-”

“You willing to bet your life on it?” Joel challenged, boldly interrupting Kain mid-rant. The knight’s gaze jumped between the cowering Bard to Joel’s stern expression, clearly weighing his options. With a growl, Kain shoved past the servant and stormed out the door, slamming it behind him. Joel waited until he couldn’t hear the echo of the knight’s thundering steps before carefully approaching the Bard, who violently flinched when the servant reached for him.

The teen chose not to take the involuntary movement to heart, dutifully fixing the musician’s rumpled clothes before reaching to the side to grab the discarded red cloak. Joel gently draped it onto the musician’s shoulders, offering the shaken man a timid but sympathetic smile. But, before he could move away, the Bard shifted over and patted the ground beside him in a clear invitation to sit. The servant hesitantly obliged, settling down next to the sniffling musician. It wasn’t long until the Bard broke the calm silence, twisting so that he could comfortably face the teen.

“Thank you.” The musician croaked, his wet cornflower blue eyes filled with so much gratitude that Joel felt a hot flash of guilt for the fact that he had actually _considered_ abandoning the musician to Kain’s sadistic whims. The teen wordlessly nodded, not trusting his voice. Suddenly recalling the reason for his impromptu visit, the teen hastily dug into his pocket to pull out a folded piece of parchment. Joel offered it to the Bard with beseeching eyes, holding his breath when the musician cautiously took and unfolded the paper to reveal a rough sketch that mapped out the manor.

“I know it’s not much, but this will help you escape. If you follow the path I made, you’ll be brought to a servant entrance.” Joel reached over to tap his finger against the route he’d shaded, the ink depicting the correct direction. The Bard’s lips twitched into a warm smile, the man snorting in amusement. “Well, that’s certainly _much_ more discreet than the front door. I’m Jaskier by the way, could I have the pleasure of knowing your name?” The Bard -Jaskier- inquired. The servant barked a laugh at the realization that he was just now getting introduced to the musician, Jaskier grinning like he knew exactly what the teen was thinking.

“Joel.” The servant got out between giggles, shaking his head in disbelief. This entire situation was insane, but Joel didn’t regret helping Jaskier. “It’s a delight to meet you, Joel. But if I may be so bold as to ask how you got caught up with these unsavory characters?” Jaskier hiked a knee up and propped his chin on it, his curious blue gaze watching Joel as he fidgeted. “Well, uh, my dad died four years ago. He owed Lord Osric money you see, so when the Lord came to collect...he offered to expunge the debt if I pledged servitude to him.” Joel confessed, it had seemed like a fair exchange at the time.

He was so young that he hadn’t understood exactly what he was getting himself into. If he could go back, he would change his answer. Telling a Lord no would have resulted in his death, but at least he would’ve died a free man. “So life has been rough for you so far, huh? It’s always the good ones who get dealt a shitty hand.” Jaskier growled and, even though they barely knew each other, for some reason this crazy Bard was angry on Joel’s behalf. “Joel?” Jaskier’s tone sent a shiver down the servant’s spine, and he reluctantly turned to acknowledge the Bard. 

“I’m telling you this because you helped me. When Geralt comes for me -and he _will_ come- stay out of his way.”

* * *

“Joel!” The teen froze at the sound of his name, timidly glancing at the enraged knight who stalked toward him. Once Kain was close enough to grab the servant, his hand took Joel’s forearm in a crushing grip. He used his hold on the teen to drag him closer, stopping when they were practically nose-to-nose. “I know that you had something to do with this.” He snarled, his warm breath fanning over Joel’s scrunched face. The knight reeked of booze and whatever he’d eaten for lunch, it was disgusting. “What?” The servant blurted, unsure of what he’d done to deserve Kain’s ire this time.

“The Bard! Augustus ran into him near the west servant entrance, the bastard is trying to escape again!” The knight sneered before twisting on his heel, dragging Joel with him as he marched down the corridor. The servant didn’t resist the harsh treatment, his brain stuck on Kain’s words. The Bard had been spotted at a servant entrance, one that Joel himself frequently used. His survival now depended on the musician’s successful escape, because if they caught Jaskier and found the map, Joel was as good as dead. He was abruptly jarred out of his thoughts when Kain towed him out into the cool evening air.

“What are we doing out here?” Joel dared to ask, confused as to why he was tagging along. The servant could hear shouting in the distance, which appeared to be coming from the forest that the knight was hauling him toward. “I’m not letting you out of my sight. As soon as we recapture the Bard and prove that you were involved in this little stunt, you’re a fucking dead man.” Kain barked, leveling Joel’s pale face with a smug smirk. The servant stumbled after the knight, tripping over wayward roots and uneven ground as they brute-forced their way into the woods at a dead sprint.

It wasn’t long until Joel caught sight of the main group, Bernard leading the chase with a wolfish grin. The teen managed to catch a glimpse of Jaskier, who had a few yards of distance between himself and the hooting and hollering mob of knights that were on his tail. The Bard didn’t even look out of breath either, effortlessly keeping the lead he had on his pursuers. He didn’t appear particularly distressed by the situation he found himself in either, it seemed like he knew exactly what he was doing. 

He was...he was _leading_ them somewhere.

Jaskier’s warning surged into the forefront of Joel’s mind and he immediately began to try and wiggle out of Kain’s grip, the teen didn’t want to find out what the musician had in store for the brigade of knights that was on his tail. “Where do you think you’re going?” Kain scowled, tightening his grip. Joel winced at the uncomfortable pressure, his attention pulled back to the chase when the Bard started to slow. Bernard’s grin stretched wide and he pushed himself ahead of the group, wanting the glory of recapturing the musician. Joel’s stomach dropped when the knight’s hand extended, reaching for Jaskier’s doublet.

The Bard ducked a split second before he was grabbed, a blur of white lunging out of the bushes in front of the musician, leaping clear over Jaskier. Joel’s face blanched of color when the massive beast knocked Bernard to the ground, it’s jaws stretching wide before clamping down onto the knight’s head with a sickening crunch that abruptly silenced Bernard’s screams for help. Everything went still and quiet for a moment, several pairs of wide eyes jumping between the wolf’s crimson-coated muzzle and the bloodied remains of Bernard.

“Well what are you waiting for!?” Kain bellowed, startling his fellow knights. “Kill it!” One of the beast’s ears twitched toward Jaskier when the Bard scrambled to his feet, the musician’s movement drawing Kain’s attention. The knight’s eyes narrowed, those dark pools filling with hostile intent. Kain’s men burst into action, drawing their weapons before rushing at the wolf with a collective battle cry. It wasn’t even a fight, it was a slaughter. The beast’s claws tore through their armor like a hot knife through butter, dagger-like teeth cutting through flesh and crushing bone.

Joel didn’t even realize that Kain had let go of him until he heard Jaskier shout, too distracted by the bloodshed to notice the knight’s suspicious absence. The teen’s head snapped toward the sound of a scuffle, hazel eyes locking onto Kain, who had the Bard on the ground. The knight’s hands were wrapped around Jaskier’s throat, the latter clawing at Kain’s arms between wheezing gasps. It seemed that the wolf noticed the musician’s predicament as well, it’s sharp eyes cutting over to the weakly struggling Bard. 

It’s snarl had the hair on the teen’s arms rising, the beast carelessly tossing it’s current victim aside in favor of making its way toward Jaskier. Unfortunately, a rather brave knight leapt at the wolf’s turned back, their sword sinking into its flesh. The beast whirled around with a roar, causing the sword to rip free and red immediately flooded from the wound to stain white fur. Joel’s eyes left the raging beast and landed on Jaskier, the Bard wouldn’t last much longer and the wolf was surrounded by knights that wouldn’t hesitate to use its distracted state to deal out lethal blows in order to slow it down.

_Jaskier was going to die._

Between one blink and the next, Joel was moving. He sprinted across the blood-slick ground, rapidly covering the distance between him and the Bard. His mad dash drew the beast’s keen gaze, Joel watched those intelligent molten eyes calculate his trajectory. Its lips curled, a thunderous snarl erupting from its chest. Its liquid pools bore into the teen, but he ignored it in favor of slamming into Kain from the side. The force behind the momentum he’d built up dislodging the knight from his position, the two of them landing in a tangle of limbs. The Bard gasped in breaths, coughing roughly as he flailed upright. 

Joel had a moment of short-lived relief before Kain was grabbing him, the teen squawking when the knight violently wrestled the servant onto his back. The first punch had Joel seeing stars, pain exploding across his face. He blinked sluggishly, unable to regain his bearings before the second blow connected. His teeth snapping together, the blunt edges catching his tongue. Iron rapidly filled his mouth and he choked when he tried to swallow, his stomach churning at the harsh copper taste. He managed to crack his eyes open, uncomprehending for all of three seconds, before what he was seeing processed.

Jaskier had Kain in a head-lock, the Bard’s eyes wild as he ruthlessly choked the ever-loving _shit_ out of the knight. Joel grit his teeth as he shifted, using his elbows to push himself up enough to take a swing at Kain, his knuckles slamming into the knight’s nose with a satisfying crunch. Kain hissed in pain as blood gushed out of his nostrils, hands desperately yanking at the Bard’s sleeves. Jaskier paid his efforts no mind, hauling the knight backward so that Joel could squirm free from the cage of Kain’s legs.

The knight’s boots scraped against the ground as he kicked out, the teen rolling to avoid the useless flailing. Both Jaskier and Joel were taken off-guard when Kain snapped his head back, the Bard’s iron grip on the knight faltering when the back of the asshole’s skull collided with the musician’s nose. Kain tore himself out of Jaskier’s clutches, sucking in harsh breaths as he dropped low and swept the Bard’s legs out from under him. The musician toppled over with a shouted curse, curling into a ball when the knight drove the toe of his boot into Jaskier’s stomach. With a growl, Joel pushed himself up and rammed his shoulder into Kain’s back.

The knight stumbled, whirling around to level Joel’s trembling form with frenzied eyes. Kain stormed toward the teen, who held his ground for the first time in his life. He refused to lay down and die. If this was the end, he was determined to go out fighting. The servant shivered when a shadow descended upon the two of them, a massive body crowding up behind Joel. He could _feel_ the snarl that vibrated in the beast’s chest, the teen raising his eyes in disbelief. The wolf’s piercing gaze wasn’t on him though, it was focused on Kain. The knight had halted in his tracks, like not moving would somehow make him less of a target.

Kain clearly didn’t know _who_ he was in the presence of.

It had taken Joel a few minutes to figure it out, but he was positive that the wolf behind him was actually a _Witcher._ And not just any Witcher either, it was _Jaskier’s_ Witcher. He had come, just like the Bard said he would. Joel couldn’t imagine having that much faith in one man, but that was the point...wasn’t it? Witcher’s weren’t men, they fell into a whole other category of their own. Joel was unceremoniously pulled from his contemplation when Kain made an aborted attempt to run, he barely even had time to turn before the Witcher was on him. The knight’s shrieks were silenced with a quick shake of the beast’s head, Kain’s neck snapping with an audible crack.

“Geralt.” Both Joel and the beast turned to acknowledge the Bard, who was sprawled on the ground. Jaskier looked _gutted_ with relief, his eyes wide and suspiciously wet. _“Geralt.”_ The wolf didn’t spare Joel’s prone figure a second glance as he hastily relocated to the Bard’s side, the Witcher circling the musician with a low whine. Jaskier reached out with a harsh sob, the dam of emotion bursting. The musician finally letting the fear of being fucking _kidnapped_ wash over him, let himself feel the terror of being drugged and very nearly bedded against his will. The beast’s ears flattened when faced with his Bard’s distress, clawed hands carefully wrapping around Jaskier’s arms to guide the musician to his unsteady feet.

Jaskier practically fell into the beast as soon as he was properly upright, burying his face in the plush fur that covered the wolf’s stomach with a loud wail. Joel averted his eyes from the scene, allowing them a semblance of privacy. His attention was seized in a vice grip when he caught a flash of brown hair, the strands calmly swaying with the breeze. He stumbled over a limp body, a lump lodging in his throat as he approached what was left of the knight. His knees buckled when his wide hazel pools found dull, unseeing emerald eyes. A trail of coagulating blood stretched from Augustus' mouth to his chin, painting his lips crimson. His neck was splattered with gore, strings of muscle and flesh indicated where his head had once been attached to his shoulders.

When he managed to tear his eyes away from the pieces of who he once considered a friend, Jaskier and Witcher were gone.

He was alone.


End file.
